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The Author liad become deeply interested in her little 
world of Orr's Island j she was again a dweller amongst the 
friends of Maine — ^roaming in its woods and cruising in its 
bays — ^when national, soul-stirring events occurred, too 
absorbing to admit of thoughts xinconnected with their 
course, so overpowering and momentous as to dispel all day- 
dreams, and put a stop to all story-telling. Less than half 
of the book was finished ; but prepared as it was for English 
publication, and announced and expected, the Author could 
not but allow her friends the Publishers to issue it ; this she 
the more readily did, as it really comprised a distinct portion 
of the lives of her characters. 

Such is the whole truth, accounting for the appearance 
in the first instance of half her story, which the Author 
thinks it due to herself to state ; and in now fulfilling her 
promise of the second portion, and publishing the whole in 
its complete, form, she trusts that she satisfies the anxiety of 
all whose interest has been excited in Moses and Mara, 
Sally Kittridge and the old Captain, and clears herself from 
a possible charge of want of purpose, or freak of caprice, to 
stimulate the curiosity of her readers, 

April, 1862. 



On tlie road to the Kennebec, below the town of Bath, in the 
State of Maine, might be seen, on a certain autumnal afternoon, 
a one-horse wagon, in which two persons are sitting. One is an 
old man, with the peculiarly hard but expressive physiognomy 
which characterises the seafaring population of the New England 

A clear blue eye, evidently practised in habits of keen 
observation, white hair, bronzed, weather-beaten cheeks, and a 
face deeply lined with the furrows of shrewd thought and anxious 
care, were ppints of the portrait that made themselves felt at a 

By his side sat a young woman of two-and-twenty, of a 
marked and peculiar personal appearance. Her hair was black, 
and smoothly parted on a broad forehead ; and a pair of pencilled 
dark eyebrows gave to it a striking and definite outline. Beneath, 
lay a pair of large black eyes, remarkable for tremulous expression 
of melancholy and timidity. The cheek was white and bloodless 
as a snowberry, though with the clear and perfect oval of good 
health; the mouth was delicately formed, with a certain. sad quiet 
in its Enes, which indicated a habitually repressed and senaltly^ 

The dreea of thia young person, as often "Wg^^^ ^ ^^'^ 


England, was, in refinement and even elegance, a marked contiasi 
to that of her male companion and to the hmnble yehide in which 
Bhe rode. There was not only the most fastidious neatness, but 
a delicacy in the choice of colours, an indication of el^ant tastes 
in the whole arrangement, and the quietest suggestion in the 
world of an acquaintance with the usages of fashion, which struck 
one oddly in those wild and dreary surroundings. On the whole, 
she impressed one like those fragile wild-flowers which in April 
cast their fluttering shadows from the mossy creyices of the old 
New England granite — an existence in which colourless delicacy 
is united to a sort of elastic hardihood of life, fit for the rocky soil 
and harsh winds it is born to encounter. 

The scenery of the road along which the two were riding was 
wild and bare. Only savins and mullens, with their dark pyramids 
or white spires of velvet leaves, diversified the sandy wayside ; but 
out at sea was a wide sweep of blue, reaching far to the open 
ocean, which lay rolling, tossing, and breaking into white caps of 
foam in the bright sunshine. For two or three days a north-east 
storm had been raging, and the sea was in all the commotion which 
such a general upturning creates. 

The two travellers reached a point of elevated land, where they 
paused a moment, and the man drew up the jogging, stiff- jointed 
old farm-horse, and raised himself upon his feet to look out at the 

There might be seen in the distance the blue Kennebec sweep- 
ing out toward the ocean through its picturesque rocky shores, 
decked with cedars and other dusky evergreens, which were illu- 
minated by the orange and flamC'-coloured trees of Indian summer. 
Here and there scarlet creepers swung long trailing garlands over 
the faces of the dark rock, and fringes of golden rod above swayed 
with the brisk blowing wind that was driving the blue waters 
seaward, in face of the up-coming ocean tide — ^a conflict which 
caused them to rise in great foam- crested waves. There were two 
channels into this river from the open sea, navigable for ships 
which are coming in to the city of Bat\i •, on^ \a\sto^^ ^TA^^sStfyw^ 


;he other nazrow and deep, and these are divided hj a steep ledge 
>f rocks. 

Where the spectators of this scene were sitting, they cotdd see 
n the distance a ship borne with tremendous force by the rising 
Ida into the mouth of the river, and encountering a north-west 
vind which had succeeded the gale, as north-west winds often do 
)TL this coast. The ship, &om what might be observed in the 
listance, seemed struggling to make the wider channel, but was 
constantly driven off by the baffling force of the wind. 

^* There she is, Kaomi,** said the old fisherman, eagerly, to his 
^mpanion, ^^ coming right in.** The young woman was one of 
;he sort that never start, and never exclaim, but with all deeper 
amotions grow still. The colour slowly mounted into her cheek, 
der lips parted, and her eyes dilated with a wide, bright expression; 
her breathing came in thick pants, but she said nothing. 

The old fishennan stood up in the wagon, his coarse butternut- 
coloured coat-fiaps fluttering and snapping in tibe breeze, while his 
interest seined to be so intense in the efforts of the ship that he 
nade involuntary and eager movements as if to direct her course. 
k moment j>a88ed, and his keen, practised eye discovered a change 
n her movements, for he cried out involuntaniy— 

" Don't take the narrow channel to-day I" and a moment after, 
'OLordl OLordl have mercy — there they go I Look I look! 

And, in £Eu;t, the ship rose cm a great wave clear out of the 
sirater, and the next second seemed to leap with a desperate plunge 
into the narrow passage ; for a moment there was a shivering of 
the masts and the rigging, and she went down and was gone. 

" They're spUt to pieces ! " cried the fisherman. " Oh, my poor 
girl — my poor girl — ^they're gone 1 O Lord, have mercy !" 

The woman lifted up no voice, but, as one who has been shot 
through the heart faJls with no cry, she fell back — ^a mist rose up 
over her great mournful eyes — she had fainted. 

The story of this wreck of a home-boTmd i^oi^ yofi^ eo^xsrax^^^^ 
barlfowr ia yet told in many a family on tina ww«^* Ki«v V^^^^a;^ 

1 > THE PKA&L or ORK*S 1SLAS1>. 

after, the ixnfbrtiizuLte crew were washed aahora m all the joyom 
hoIiiLiy rig in which they had attired themadTai thai morniiig to 
go to their aiateEs, wirea, and mothers. 
This ia the fizat acene in oor atoiy. 


Dowx near the end of Orr^ Idand, fidng the opea ocean, atends 
a brown house of the kind that the nattrea call ''lean to," or 
" linter '*— one of thoae large^ comfcartaMe aimeturea , banen in the 
ideal, bat lich in the practical^ wfaidL the woridng man of New 
England can alwaya command. 

The waters of the ocean came up within a rod of this hoow, and 
the soond of ita moaning waveB was eren now filling tiie dear 
antnmn starli^t. Eyidently something was going on within, for 
candles flattered and winked £rom window to window, like fire-flies 
in a dark meadow, and sonnds as of qoick footBtefB, and the flatter 
of brushing gannaits, might be heard* 

Something nnosoal is certainly going on within the dwelling of 
Zephaniah FenneLio-night. 

Let us ent^ the dark front door. We feel oor way to the 
right, where a solitary ray of light oomes fiK)m the chink ai a half- 
opened door. 

Here is the front room of the house, set apart as its place of 
especial social hilarity and sanctity — " the best room,^' wiil^ its low 
studded walls, white dimity window-curtains, rag carpet, and 
polished wood chairs. 

It is now lit by the dim gleam of a solitary tallow candle, 
which seems in the gloom to make only a feeble circle of light 
around itself, leaving all the rest of the apartment in shadow. 

In the centre of the room, stretched upon a table, and covered 
partially by a sea-cloak, lies thebody of aman of twenty-five— lies, 
too, evidently as one of whom it is written — " He fehall return to 
his house no more, neithor shall his place "kno^? \jim ^sl-j xosst^r 


A splendid manhood has suddenlj been called to forsake that 
lifeless form, leaving it, like a deserted palace, beautiful in its 

The hair, dripping -with the salt wave, cnried in gloasy abun- 
dance on the finely-formed head ; the flat, broad brow ; the closed 
37e, with its long black lashes ; the firm, manly mouth ; the gtrongly- 
moulded chin-^all, all were sealed with that seal which is nerer to 
be broken till the great resurrection day. 

He was lying in a full suit of broadcloth, with a white rest a^ 
smart blue neck-tie, fiustened with a pin, in which was some 
braided hair under a crystal. All his dotlung, as well as his hair, 
was saturated with sea-water, which trickled firom time to time, 
and struck with a leaden and dropping sound into a sullen pool 
which lay under the table. 

This was the body of James Lincoln, shipmaster of the brig 
Flying Scud, who that morning had dressed himself gaily in his 
state-room to go on shore and meet his wiiGd-nainging and jesting 
as he did so. 

This is all that you have to learn in the room below; but as we 
stand there, we hear a trampling of feet in the apartment abov&— the 
^uick yet careTuT opening and shutting of doors— and Toioes oome 
uid go about the house, and whisper consultations on the eteais. 
Row comes the roll of wheels, and the Doctor's gig drives up to 
bhe door ; and, as he goes creaking up with his heavy boots, we 
will follow and gain admission to the dimly-lighted chamber. 

Two gossips are sitting in earnest, whispering oonvanaation over 
I small bundle done up in an old flannel petticoat. To th^n the 
doctor is about to address himself cheerily, but is repelled by 
mndry signs and sounds which warn him not to speak. 

Moderating his heavy boots as well as he is able to a pace of 
i^uiet, he advanees for a moment, and ihe petticoat is unfolded for 
tiim to glance at its contents; while a low, eager, whispered conver- 
sation, attended with much head-shaking, warns him that his fir&t 
duty is with aomehody behind the checked circt8bVn& oS. ^Xi^m'^^ 
"aiUiiir cornor of the room. He Btepa Oik t\^t<OQ^ %i5A ^W^^ "^^^ 


curtain; and there, with closed eye, and cheek as white as win 
snow, lies the same face over which passed the shadow of de 
when that ill-fiekted ship went down. 

This wonkan was wife to him who lies below, and within 
hour has been made mother to a frail little human existei 
which the stoim of a great anguish has driven untimely on 
shores of life — a precious pearl cast up from the past eternity u 
the wet, wave-ribbed sand of the present. Now, weary with 
moanings, and beaten out with the wroich of a double anguish, 
lies with dosed eyes in that weary apathy which precedes de( 
shadows and longer rest. 

Over against her, on the other side of the bed, sits an a 
woman in an attitude of deep dejection, and the old man we i 
with her in the morning is standing with an anxious, awe-str 
fiftce at the foot of the bed. 

The Doctor feels the pulse of the wcnnan, or rather lays an 
quiring finger where the slightest thread of vital current is scan 
throbbing, and shakes his head mournfully. 

The touch of his hand rouses h&t — ^her large, wild, mdancl 
eyes fix themselves on him with an inquiring glance, then 
shivers and moans — 

** Oh, Doctor, Doctor ! — Jamie, Jamie ! " 

"Come, come!" said the Doctor, "cheer up, my girl; yoi 
got a fine little daughter— the Lord mingles mercies with 

Her eyes closed, her head moved with a mournful but deci 

A moment after she spoke in the sad old words of the Heb 

Scripture — 

*' Call her not Naomi; call her Mara, for the Almighty 1 

dealt very bitterly with me." 

And as she spoke, there passed over her face the sharp frosi 
the last winter ; but even as it passed there broke out a smile 
if a flower had been thrown down from Paradise, Mid«,hft « 
" Not my wW, but thj will," and so waa goiie. 


Annt Boxy and Aunt Ruey were soon lefb alone in the chamber 
of death. 

^^ She^ll make a beautifid corpse," said Aunt Boxy, surveying 
the still, white form contemplatively, with her head in an artistic 

*^ She was a pretty girl,*' said Aunt Buey ; " dear me, what a 
Providence I I 'member the wedd'n down in that lower room, and 
what a handsome couple they were." 

"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their 
deaths they were not divided," said Aunt Boxy, sententiously. 

^« What was it she said, did ye hear ?" said Aunt Buey. 

" She called the baby *Mary.' " 

"Ah! sure enough, her mother's name afore her. What a still, 
softly-spoken thing she always was I " 

" A pity the poor baby didn't go with her," said Aunt Boxy ; 
^^ seven-months' children are so hard to raise." 

" lis a pity," said the other. 

But babies will live, and all the more when everybody says that 
it is a pity they should. life goes on as inexorably in this world 
as death. ' 

It was ordered by the Will above that out of these two graves 
should spring one frail, trembling autumn flower — ^the ^^Mara" 
whose poor little roots first struck deep in the salt, bitter waters 
of our mortal life. 


Now, I cannot think of anything more unlikely and uninteresting 
to make a story of than that old brown ** linter " house of Captain 
Zephaniah Fennel, down on the south end of Orr's Island. 

Zephaniah and Mary Fennel, like Zacharias and Elizabeth, are 
a pair of worthy. God-fearing people, walking in all the com- 
mandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless ; but that i& t\.<^ 
^vaat recommendation to a world gaping ioi qi&ta8i^a!^ti vck^ ^ssSS&sss^ 
/or something BtimalaUng. This worthy cou^U 'Dfij^^ x<»^ ^^"i' 


thing biit the Bible, the Missionary Herald, and the Christian 
Mirror — never wor.t anp*-here except in the round of daily bud- 
nesB. He owne^l a fishing smack, in which he laboured after the 
apostolic fashion ; and she washed, and ironed, and scmbbed, and 
brewed, and baked, in her contented round, week in and out. The 
only recreation they erer enjoyed was the gdng once a week, in 
good weather, to a prayer-meeting in a little old brown school- 
house, about a mile from their dwelling ; and making a weekly ex- 
cursion every Sunday, in their fishing craft, to the church opposite, 
on Harpswell Neck. 

To be sure, Zephaniah had read many wide leaves of God's 
great book of Nature, for, like most Maine sea-captains, he had 
been wherever ship can go— to aU usual and unusual ports. His 
hard, shrewd, weather-beaten visage had been seen looking over 
ihi railings of his brig in the port of Grenoa, swept round by its 
splendid crescent of palaces and its snow-crested Appenines. It 
had looked out in the Lagoons of Venice at that wavy floor which 
in evening seems a sea of glass mingled with fire, and out of which 
rise temples, and palaces, and churches, and distant silyery Alps, 
like so many fabrics of dreamland. He had been through the 
Skagerrack and Cattegat — into the Baltic to Archangel, and there 
chewed a bit of chip, and considered and calculated what bargains 
it was best to make. He had walked the streets of Calcutta in his 
shirt-sleeves, with his best Sunday vest, backed with black glazed 
cambric, which six months before came &om the hands of Miss 
Iloxy, and was pronounced by her to be as good as any tailor could 
make ; and in all these places he was just Zephaniah Pennel — a 
chip of old Maine — ^thrifty, careful, shrewd, honest, God-fearing, 
and carrying an instinctive knowledge of men and things under a 
face of rustic simplicity. 

It was once, returning from one of his voyages, he found his 
wife with a black-eyed, curly-headed little creature, who called him 
papa, and climbed on his knee, nestled under his coat, rifled his 
pockets, and woke him every morning by pulling open his eyes 
with little fingerS; and jabbering uninteWigiblQ ^aXfic\am\aa «m%. 


^ We will call this child Naomi, wife," he said, after consnlt- 
ing his old Bible ; " for that means pleasant, and Fm sore I never 
see anythiiig beat her for pleasantness. I never knew as children 
was so engagin* ! '' 

It was to be remarked that Zephaniah after this made shorter 
and shorter voyages, being somehow conscious of a string around 
hia beart which polled him harder and harder, till one Sunday, 
when the Httle Nnomi was five years old, he said to his wife — 

"I hope I an't a-pervertin' Scriptur* nor nuthin', but I can't 
help thinkin' of one passage, ^The kingdom of heaven is like a 
merchantman seeking goodly pearls, and when he hath found one 
pearl of great price, for joy thereof he goeth and selleth all that he 
bath, and buyeth that pearl.' Well, Mary, I've been and sold my 
brig last we^," he said, folding his daughter's little quiet head 
under his coat, " 'cause it seems to me the Lord's given us this pearl 
of great price, and it's enough for us. I don't want to be rambling 
round the world after riches. We'll have a little fann down on 
Orr's Island, and I'll have a little fishing-smack, and we'll live and 
be happy together." 

And so Mary, who in those days was a pretty young married 
woman, felt herself rich and happy — ^no duchess richer or happier. 
The two contentedly delved and toiled, and the little Naomi was 
their princess. The wise men of the East at the feet of an infant, 
offering gifts, gold, firankincense, and myrrh, is just a parable of 
what goes on in every house where there is a young child. All the 
hard and the harsh, and the common and the disagreeable, is for 
the parents — all the bright and beautiful for their child. 

When the fishing-smack went to Portland to sell mackerel, 
there came home in Zephanlah's fishy coat-pocket strings of coral 
beads, tiny gaiter boots, brilliant silks and ribbons for the little 
fairy princess-* hig Pearl of the Island; and sometimes, when a 
stray carriage firom the neighbouring town of Brunswick came 
down to explore the romantic scenery of the solitary ialaaid^tk^ 
would he startled by the apparition of llm ^\S!L^ \gcw5«StQ^^ ^kS«.- 
^ed child, exquisitely dremd in the Ijeat 01x^1 ^T\^\fi»^» 'Cosw\»'^^ 


Bbops of a neighbouring city cotdd afford — sitting like some 
tropical bird on a lonely rock, where the sea came dashing up 
tlie edges of arbor vitse, or tripping along the wet sands far 
and sea- weed. 

Many children would have been spoiled by such unlimited in- 
dulgence ; but there are natures sent down into this harsh wc 
so timorous, and sensitive, and helpless in themselves, that the 
most stretch of indulgence and kindness is needed^or their develop- j 
ment — like plants which the warmest shelf of the greenhouse andw. 
the most careful watch of the gardener alone can bring into] 

The pale child, with her large, lustrous, dark eyes, and sensitit 
organisation, was nursed and brooded into a beautiful womanhood, 
and then found a protector in a high-spirited, manly young ship* 
master, and she became his wife. > 

And now we see in the best room — ^the walls Uned with aeriooi 
faces — ^men, womeu, and children, that have come to pay the last 
tribute of sympathy to the living and the dead. 

The house looked so utterly alone and solitary in that wild, sea- 
girt islaud, that one would have as soon expected the sea- waves to 
rise and walk in, as so many neighbours ; but they had come from 
ncighbouriDg points, crossing the glassy sea in their little crafts, 
whose white sails looked like miller^s wings, or walking miles &om 
distant parts of the island. 

Some writer calls funerals one of the amusements of a New 
England population. Must we call it an amusement to go and see 
the acted despair of Medea ? or the dying agonies of poor Adrienne 
Lecouvrier? It is something of the same awful interest in life's 
tragedy, which makes an untaught and primitive people gather to 
a funeral — a tragedy where there is no acting — and one which 
each one feels must come at some time to his own dwelling. 

Be that as it may, here was a roomful. Not only Aunt Rosy 
and Aunt Ruey, who by a prescriptive right presided over all 
births, deaths, and marriages of the iieig\\\Ki\a\iCKA^ \s\j}t\Jtos»-^i^ 
Captain Kittridgef a long, dry, "weatYieT-^ieat^ii ^A'Sl ^^sab-<i«^\Ka!L^ 


led in a double bow-knot, with ids little fussy old 
-eat Leghorn bonnet, and eyes like black glass beads. 
h the bows of her horn spectacles, and her hymn- 
and ready to lead the psalm. There were aunts, 
, and brethren of the deceased ; and in the midst 
QS, where the two united in death lay sleeping ten- 
to whom rest is good. All was still as death, except 
)er from some busy neighbour, or a- creak of an old 
ck fan, or the fizz of a fly down the window-pane, "and 
ound of deep-drawn breath and weeping from under 
kvy black crape veils, which were together in tho 
jountry people call the mourners. 
' autumn sunlight streamed through the white cor- 
m a silver baptismal vase that stood on the mother's 
mnister rose and said, ^^The ordinance of ba{>tism 
[ministered." A few moments more, and on a; baby: 
Q a few drops of water, and the little pilgrim of a 
3en called Mara in the name of the Father, Son, and; 
he minister slowly repeating thereafter those beaoti-. 
Loly Writ, " A father of the fatherless is God in his 
i " — as if the baptism of that bereaved one had been 
ion into the infinite heart of the Lord. 
;thing of the quaint pathos which distinguishes the. 

Biblical people of that lonely shore, the minister 
age in Buth from which the name of the little 
rawn, and which describes the return of the bereaved 

native land. His voice trembled, and there were 
eyes as he read, " And it came to pass as he came to 

the city was moved about them ; and they said, Is 
Ind she said unto them. Call me not Naomi ; call me 
Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I wen^ 
he Lord hath brought me home again empty : why" 
e Naomi, seeing the Lord hath te&tifi,eii ^^\^\»\Sk^v 
htx bath aSlicted me ? " 
VBobs from the mouniws were Iw ^ ievi is^w)^^. 


the only answer to these sad words, till the minister raised the old 
funeral psalm of New England^- 

" Why do we mourn departing friends. 

Or shake at Death's alarms ! 
"Rb but the voice that Jesus sends 

To call them to his arms. 
Are we not tending upward too. 

As fast as time can move? 
And should we wish the hours more slow 

That bear us to our love f " 

The words rose in old *^ China" — ^that strange, wild warble, whoee 

quaintly blended harmonies might have been learned of moaning 

seas or wailing winds, so strange and grand they rose, fuU of thai 

intense pathos which rises over every defect of execution ; and as 

they sang, Zephaniah Fennel straighted his taU form, befon 

bowed on his hands, and looked heavenward, his cheeks wet with 

tears, but something sublime and inmiortal shining upward throo^ 

his blue eyes ; and at the last verse he came forward involuntarily, 

and stood by his dead, and his voice rose over all the others as he 


'* Then let the last loud trumpet sound. 
And bid the dead arise ! 
Awake, ye nations under ground ! 
Ye saints, ascend the skies ! " 

The sunbeam through the window-curtain fell on his silver hair, 
and they that looked beheld his face as it were the face of an angel; 
he had gotten a sight of the city whose foundation is jasper, and 
whose every gate is a separate pearl. 


The sea lay like an unbroken mirror all around the pine-girt, 
lonely shores of Orr's Island. Tall, kingly spruces wore their regal 
crowns of cones high in air, sparkling with diamonds of clear 
exuded gum ; vast old hemlocks of pnmev«A. gco^th stood darkling 
ui tlieir foreet abadowBj their brancliea\i\in^mV)a.\QiVi^\\si^jr3 \sis>{g^, 


Feathery larches, tnmed to brilliaDt gold by autumn frosts, 
L up the darker shadows of the evergreens. It was one of 
lazy, calm, dissolving days of Indian summer, when every- 
is so quiet that the faintest kiss of the wave on the beach 

heard, and white clouds seem to faint into the blue of the 
id soft swathing bands of violet vapour make all earth look 
f, and give to the sharp, clear-cut outlines of the northern 
ipe all those mysteries of light and shade which impart such 
Qess to Italian scenery. 

& funeral was over — ^the tread of many feet, bearing the 
burden of two broken lives, had been to the lonely grave- 
ind had come back again— each footstep lighter and more 
strained as each one went his way firam the great old tragedy 
kth to the common cheerful walks of Life, 
le solemn black clock stood swaying with its eternal *^ tick- 
tick-tock," in the kitchen of the brown house on Orr^s 
1. There was there that sense of a stillness that can be felt — 
s settles down on a dwelling when any of its inmates have 

through its doors for the last time, to go whence they shall 
bum. The best room was shut up and darkened, with only 
ih. light as could fall through a little heart-shaped hole in the 
w-shutter — ^for except on solemn visits, or prayer-meetings, 
Idings or funerals, that room formed no part of the daily 

te kitchen was clean and ample, with a great open fire-place 
ride stone hearth, and oven on one side, and rows of old- 
aed splint-bottomed chairs against the wall. A table scoured 
wy whiteness, and a little work-stand whereon lay the Bible, 
Missionary Herald, and the Weekly Christian Mirror, before- 
l, formed the principal furniture. One feature, however, 
Qot be forgotten — a great sea-chest, which had been the com- 
a of Zephaniah through all the countries of the earth. Old. 
attered, and unsightly it looked, yet repoit m<i XJcaJ^ ^^^ 
ood store within of that which men for \ib.e tq!C»\» ^«c\» ^^ss^^^*^ 
^haa anytbing eke ; and, indeed, it proved oitoo. \jV^xl ^ ^^^^ 


of grace was to be done — when a woman was saddenly made a 
widow in a coast gale, or a fiflhing-smaek was nm .down in the 
fogs off the banks, leaying in some neighbouring cottage a fanatj 
of orphans — ^in all such cases, the opening of this sea-chest was an 
event of good omen to the bereayed ; for Zephaniah had a laige 
heart and a large hand, and was apt to take it out fhll of sihv 
dollars when once it went in. So the ark of the covenant cooU 
not have been looked on with more reverence than the neighbooa 
usually showed to Captain PenneVs sea-chest. 

The afternoon sun is shining in a square of light throngh the 
open kitchen door, whence one dreamily disposed might look £v 
out to sea, and behold ships coming and going in every variety d 
shape and size. 

But Aunt Roxy and Aunt Buey, who for the present were aote 
occupants of the premises, were not people of the dreamy kind, 
and consequently were not gazing off to sea, but attending to voy 
terrestrial matters that in all cases somebody must attend to. Hm 
afternoon was warm and balmy, but a few smouldering sticks wen 
kept in the great chimney, and thrust deep into the embers wasi 
mongrel species of snub-nosed tea-pot, which fumed strongly of 
catnip-tea, a little of which gracious beverage Miss Roxy was pre- 
paring in an old-fashioned cracked India china teai-cup, tasting it 
as she did so with the air of a connoisseur. 

Apparently this was for the benefit of a small something in 
long white clothes, that lay face downward under a little bhmket 
of very blue new flannel, and which something Aunt Roxy, when 
not otherwise engaged, coustantly patted with a gentle tattoo, in 
tune to the steady trot of her knee. 

All babies knew Miss Roxy^s tattoo on their backs, and never 
thought of taking it in ill part. On the contrary, it had a vital 
and mesmeric effect of sovereign force against colic, and all other 
disturbers of the nursery ; and never was infant known so pressed 
with those internal troubles which infants cry about, as not speedily 
to give over and sink to slumber at this aoothmg a.\vplia.tice. 

4t; a Httle diat&nce sat Aunt Ruey, w\t\\ a <\\\.\Vj q.1 ^^»^ 


Tape strewed on two chairs about her, yery busily employed iu 
;ettiDg up a mourning bonnet, at which she snipped, and clipped, 
nd worked, zealously singing, in a high cracked voice, from time 
o time, certain yerses of a funeral psalm. 

Miss Roxy and Miss Buey Toothacre were two brisk old bodies 
f the feminine gender and singular number, well known in all tlm 
egion of Harpswell Neck and Middle Bay, and such was their fame 
hat it had eyen reached the town of Brunswick, eighteen miles away. 

They were of that class of females who might be denominated, 
Q the Old Testament language, ^^ cunning women " — ^that is, gifted 
viih an infinite diversity of practical ^^ faculty," which made them 
21 essential requisite in every family for miles and miles around. 

It was impossible to say what they could not do : they could 
Qoake dresses, and make shirts and vests and pantaloons, and cut 
out boys' jackets, and braid straw, and bleach and trim bonnets, 
and cook and wash, and iron and mend, could upholster and quilt, 
could nurse all kinds of sicknesses, and in default of a doctor, 
who was often miles away, were supposed to be infEtUible medical 

Many a human being had been ushered into life under their 
luspices — ^trotted, chirrupped in babyhood on their knees, clothed 
tyy their handywork in garments gradually enlarging from year to 
fear, watched by them in the last sickness, and finally arrayed for 
the long repose by their hands. 

These universally useful persons recdve among us the title of 
^aunt" by a sort of general consent, showing the strong ties of 
relationship which bind them to the whole human family. They 
ire nobody's aunts in particular, but aunts to human nature 
B;eneraUy. The idea of restricting their usefulness to any ono 
Eamfly, would strike dismay through a whole community. 

Nobody would be so unprincipled as to think of such a thing as 
liaving their services more than a week or two at most. Tour 
soontry factotum knows better than anybody else ko^ ^Jososi^N^* 
RTOuld be 

" To give to a part what was meant tor mwtoci^r 


Nobody knew very well the ages of these useful sisU 
cold, dear, severe climate of the North the roots of huu 
are hard to strike ; but, if once people do take to living 
in time to a place where they seem never to grow ai 
can always be found, like last year's mullen stalks, i 
and seedy, warranted to last for any length of time. 

Miss Roxy Toothacre, who sits trotting the baby, i 
angular woman, with sharp black eyes, and hair one 
now well streaked with grey. These ravages of tic 
were concealed by an ample mohair &isette of glos 
woven on each side into a heap of stiff little curls, whic 
her cap border in rather a bristling and decisive way. 

In all her movements and personal habits, even U 
voice and manner of speaking, Miss Koxy was vigorou 
decided. Her mind on all subjects was made up, ai 
generally as one having authority ; and who should^ ij 
not? Was she not a sort of priestess and sybil in ; 
awful straits and mysteries of life? How many 
weddings, and deaths had come and gone under her j 
And amid weeping or rejoicing, was not Miss Roxy stil 
spirit — consulted, referred to by all ? — ^was not her w 
precedent ? Her younger sister. Miss Ruey, a pliant 
to-be-entreated personage, plump and cushiony, revo 
her as a humble satellite. Miss Koxy looked on Miss E 
a frisky young thing, though under her ample frisctt 
hair her head might be seen white with the same sn( 
powdered that of her sister. Aunt Ruey had a fac 
sembling the kind of one you may see, reader, by 
yourself in the convex side of a silver milk-pitcher. li 
experiment, this description will need no further ampli 

The two almost always went together, for the varie 
comprised in their stock could always find employn 
varying wants of a family. While one nursed the sic 
made clothes for the well ; and thus they were alwayi 
and chatting to each other, like a pair oi aii\A.qvx^\>^^ Vq> 


retailing oyer harmless gosaps, and moralisuig in that gentle jog- 
trot which befits serious old women. In fiict, they had talked over 
everything in Nature, and said everything they could think of to 
each other so often, that the opinions of one were as like those of 
the other as two sides of a pea-pod. But, as often happens in cases 
of the sort, this was not because the two were in all respects exactly 
alike, but because the stronger one had mesmerised the weaker into 

Miss Roxy was the master-spirit of the two, ani^ Hke the great 
coining machine of a mint, came down with her ovm ^burp, heavy 
stamp on every opinion her sister put out. She was matUu -of- fact, 
positive, and declarative to the highest degree, while her sister was 
naturally inclined to the elegiac and the pathetic, indulging herself 
in sentimental poetry, and keeping a store thereof in her thread- 
case, which abs had cut from the Christian Mirror, Miss Roxy 
sometimes, in her brusque way, popped out observations on life and 
things, with a droll, hard quaintness that took one's breath a little, 
yet never failed to have a sharp crystallisation of truth — frosty 
though it were. She was one of those sensible, practical creatures 
who tear every veil, and lay their fingers on every spot in pure 
business-like good- will ; and if we shiver at them at times, as at 
the first plunge of a cold bath, we confess to an invigorating power 
in them after aU. 

'^ Well, now," said Miss Koxy, giving a decisive push to the 
tea-pot, which buried it yet deeper in the embers, ^^ an't it all a 
strange kind o* providence that this 'ere little thing is left behind 
80 ; and then their callin' on her by such a strange, mournful kind 
of name — ^Mara. I thought sure as could be 'twas Mary, till the 
minister read the passage from Seriptur'. Seems to me it*s kind o' 
odd. I'd call it Maria, or I'd put an Ann on to it. Mara-ann, 
now, wouldn't sound so strange now." 

'^ It's a Scriptur' name, sister," said Aunt Ruey, ^' and that 
ought to be enough for us." 

^^WeU, I don't i^now," said Aunt E.oxy, ^''^ov '^'ecfe ^«^ 
Mias Jones down on JVf ore Pint called her tmnsTv^VlfcL-Y^^set «o.^ 


Shalmaneser— Scriptar* names both, but I nerer liked *em. The 
boys used to call 'em Tiggy and Shallj, so no mortal could guess 
they was Scriptur'." 

" Well," Bsid Aunt Ruey, drawing a sigh which caused her 
plump proportions to be agitated in gentle waves, " 'tan't mnch 
matter, after all, tthat they call the little thing, for 'tan't 'tall 
likely it's goin' to live— cried and worried all night, and kep' a 
Buckin' my cheek and my night-gown, poor little thing ! This 'ere's 
a baby that won't get along without its mother. What Miss 
Fennel's agoin' to do with it when we is gone, I'm sure I don't 
know. It comes kind o' hard on old people to be broke o' theii 
rest. If it's goin* to be called home, it's a pity, as I said, it didii*t 

go with its mother " 

** And save the expense of another funeral," said Aunt Roxy. 
" Now when Miss Fennel's sister asked her what she was going to 
do with Naomi's clothes, I couldn't help wonderin' when she said 
she should keep 'em for the child." 

** She had a sight of things, Naomi did," said Aunt Ruey. 
** Nothing was never too much for her. I don't believe that Cap'n 
Fennel ever went to Bath or Fortland without havin' it in his 
mind to bring Naomi somethin'." 

** Yes, and she had a faculty of puttin* of 'em on," said Miss 
Roxy, with a decisive shake of the head. ** Naomi was a still girl, 
but her faculty was uncommon ; and I tell you, Ruey, *tant every- 
body hos faculty as hes things." 

** The poor Cap'n," said Miss Ruey, " he seemed greatly sup- 
ported at the funeral, but he's dreadful broke down since. I went 
into Naomi's room this morning, and there the old man was a-sittin<y 
by her bed, and he had a pair of "her shoes in his hand — you know 
what a leetlo bit of a foot she had I never saw nothing look so 
kind o' solitary as that poor old man did I " 

" Well,'' said Miss Roxy, " she was a master hand for keepin 
things, Naomi was ; her drawers is just a sight ; she's got all the 
little presents and things they ever gLve\ieT svucci ^Qi^«&^\i\s^s^^ 
//J one drawer. There's a little pair of. red sVio^ia t\i^T^ >;Xi^\. ^^\l'5A 


when she wa'n't more'n fire year old. You 'member, Ruey, the 
Cap'n brought 'm over from Portland when we was to the house 
a-makin' Miss Penners figured blaok silk that he brought from 
Calcutty. You 'member they cost just five and sixpence ; but, law ! 
the Cap'n he never grudged the money when 'twas for Naomi. 
And BO she's got all her husband's keepsakes and things, just as 
nice as when he giv' 'em to her." 

'^ It's real afiectin'," said Miss Ruey, ** I can't all the while help 
a-thinkin' of the Psalm— 

' So fades the lovely blooming flower^ 
Frail, smiling solace of an hour; 
So quick our transient comforts fly. 
And pleasure only blooms to die.' " 

** Yes," said Miss Roxy ; " and, Ruey, I was a-thinking whether 
or no it wa'n't best to pack away them things, 'cause Naomi hadn't 
fixed no baby drawers, and we seem to want some." 

''I was kind o' hintin' that to Miss Pennel this morning," said 
Ruey, "but she can't seem to want to have 'em touched." 

'* Well, we may just as well come to such things first as last," 
said Aunt Roxy ; " 'cause if the Lor J takes our friends, he does 
take 'em ; and we can't lose 'em and have 'em too, and we may as 
well give right up at first, and done with it, that they are gone, 
and we'v' got to do without 'em, and not to be hangin' on to keep 
things just as they was." 

*' So I was a-tellin' Miss Pennel," said Miss Ruey, " but she'll 
come to it by-and-by. I wish the baby might hve, and kind o' 
grow up into her mother's place." 

" Well," said Miss Roxy, " I wish it might, but there be a sight 
o' trouble fechin on it up. Folks can do pretty well with children 
when.the're young and spry, if they do get 'em up nights; but 
come to grandchildren, it's pretty tough." 

** Pm a-thinkin', sister," said Miss Ruey, taking off her spec- 
tacles and rubbing her nose thoughtfully , " whether oi wo ^j-q^n'^^mSj. 
hn'tgoin' to he too hearty for it, it's such, a ]p«i^Ti^ \\\?(Xfe ^Owccwsg,. 
JVbnr, Mi88 Badger she brought up a Beveu-moiiSii^' OdSl^%«^^^'^ 


told me ahc gave it nuthin^ but these *ere little seed cookies, wet in 
water, and it throve nicely — and the seed is good for wind." 

^^ Oh, don*t tell me none of Miss Badger's stories/' said ^£88 
Roxy, " I don't believe in 'em. Cows is the Lord's ordinances for 
bringing up babies that's lost their mothers ; it stands to reason 
they sliould be — and babies that can't eat milk why they can't be 
fetched up ; but babies can cat milk, and this un will if it lives, 
and if it can't it won't live." So saying, Miss Roxy drummed 
away on the little back of the party in question, authoritatively, as 
if to pound in a wholesome conviction in the outset. 

^^ I hope," said Miss Ruey, holding up a strip of black crape, 
and looking through it from end to end so as to test its capabilities, 
" I hope the Cap*n and Miss Fennel '11 get some support at the 
prayer-meetin' this afternoon." 

** It's the right place to goto," said Miss Roxy, with decision. 

" Miss Fennel said this momin' that she was just beat out try- 
ing to submit ; and the more she said, ' Thy will be done/ the more 
she didn't seem to feel it." 

" Them's common feelings among mourners, Ruey. These 'ere 
forty years that I've been round nussin', and layin'-out, and tendin* 
funerals, I've watched people's exercises. Feople's sometimes sup- 
ported wonderfully just at the time, and maybe at the funeral ; but 
the three or four weeks after, most everybody, if they's to say what 
they feel, is unreconciled." 

" The Cap'n, he don't say nuthin'." said Miss Ruey. 

" No, he don't, but he looks it in his eyes," said Miss Roxy ; " he's 
one of the kind o' mourners as takes it deep ; that kind don't cry; 
it's a kind o' dry, deep pain ; them's the worst to get over it — 
sometimes they just says nutliin', and in about six months they send 
for you to nuss 'em in consumption or somethin'. Now, Miss 
Fennel, she can cry and she can talk — ^well, she'll get over it ; but 
he won't get no support unless the Lord reaches right down and 
lifts him up over the world. I've seen that happen sometimes, and 
I tell you, Ruey, that sort makes powerful Christians." 

At that moment the old pair entered the door. 

maha's childhood 27 

Zephaniah Fennel came and stood quietly by the pillow where 
he little form was laid, and lifted a corner of the blanket. The 
iny head was turned to one side, showing the soft, warm cheek, and 
he little hand was holding tightly a morsel of the flannel blanket. 
le stood swallowing hard for a few moments. At last he said, 
^ith deep humility, to the wise and mighty woman who held her, 
1*11 tell you what it is. Miss Koxy, I'll give all there is in my old 
best yonder if you'll only make her — live." 


It did live. The little life, so frail, so'unprofitable in every mere 
naterial view, so precious in the eyes of love, expanded and 
lowered at last into fair childhood. Not without much watching 
and weariness. Many a night the old fisherman walked the floor 
with the little thing in his arms, talking to it that jargon of 
tender nonsense which fairies bring as love-gifts to all who tend a 
3radle. Many a day the good little old grandmother called the 
iid of gossips about her, trying various experiments of catnip, and 
jweet fern, and bay-berry, and other teas of rustic reputation for 
t)aby frailties. 

At the end of three years, the two graves in the lonely grave- 
jrard were sodded and cemented down by smooth velvet turf, and 
playing round the door of the brown house was a slender child, 
nrith ways and manners so still and singular as often to remind 
the neighbours that she was not like other children — a bud of 
bope and joy — ^but the outcome of a great sorrow — a pearl washed 
ishore by a mighty, uprooting tempest. They that looked at her 
remembered that her father's eye had never beheld her, and her 
baptismal cup had rested on her mother's coffin. 

She was small of stature, beyond the wont of children of her 
age, and moulded with a flne waxen delicacy that won admiration 
from all eyes. Her hair was curly and goVdsvi^ \sw\»\kJst ^^^ss» 
were dark like her mother's, and the \ida Oaioo-g^ os^x ^'s^ ^sv 


that manner 'wliich givee a pecollar expression of dreamy "wist^ 

Every one of as must remember eyes that have a strange, 
peculiar expression of pathos and desire, as if the spirit that looked 
out of them were pressed with vague remembrances of a past, or 
but dimly comprehended the mystery of its present life. Even 
when the baby lay in its cradle, and its dark, inquiring eyes would 
follow now one object and now another, the gossips would say the 
child was longing for something, and Miss Roxy would still further 
venture to predict that that child always would long and never 
would know exactly what she was after. 

That dignitary sits at this minute enthroned in the kitchen 
comer, looking majestically over the press-board on her knee, 
where she is pressing the next year's Sunday vest of Zephaniah 
Pennel. As she makes her heavy tailor's goose squeak on the work, 
her eyes follow the little delicate fairy form which trips about the 
kitchen, busily and silently arranging a little grotto of gold and 
silver shells and sea- weed. The child sings to herself as she works 
in a low chant, like the prattle of a brook, but ever and anon she 
rests her little arms on a chair and looks through the open kitchen 
door far, far off where the horizon line of the blue sea dissolves in 
the blue sky. 

" See that child now, Roxy," said Miss Ruey, who sat stitching 
beside her ; " do look at her eyes. She's as handsome as a pictur', 
but 'ta'n't an ordinary look she has neither ; she seems a contented 
little thing; but what makes her eyes always look so kind o' 

Wa'n't her mother always a-longin' and a-lookin' to sea, and 
watchiu'the ships, afore she was born?" said Miss Roxy; **and 
didn't her heart break afore she was born? Babies like that is 

u TP^'l'^'^^^' They don't know what ails 'em, nor nobody." 

*c Th T "^^^^^^ ®^®'® ^^^^ ?" said Miss Ruey. 

childrenlltys tjj^r"'" W ""^ T'' "'"* ^^'^ ^^"^ "' 
■Thov're mos^^Z ^ homesick to go back where they come from, 
ane/rt mostly grayQ ^^^ old-fashioned \ik^t\i\a^xm. li W^^ ^^\^ 


past seven yearo, why they lire ; bat it's always in 'em to long ; 
they don't seem to be redly unhappy neither, but if anything's 
ever the matter with *em, it seems a great deal easier for *em to die 
than to live. Some say it's the mothers longin' after *em makes 
*em feel so, and some say it's them loDgin' after their mothers ; but 
dear knows, Ruey, what anything is or what makes anything. 
Children's mysterious, thaVs my mind." 

''Mara, dear," said Miss Ruey, interrupting the child's steady 
look-out, " what you thinking of?" 

'' Me want somefin', " said the little one. 

*' That's what she's always saying," said Miss Roxy. 

*' Me want somebody to pay wis'," continued the little one. 

*'*• Want somebody to play with," said old Dame Fennel, as she 
came in &om the back room with her hands yet floury with knead- 
ing bread; ''sure enough, she does. Our house stands in such a 
lonesome place, and there a'n't any children. But I never saw 
such a quiet little thing — always still and always busy." 

*' I'll take her down with me to Cap'n Eittridge's," said Miss 
Roxy, '' and let her play with their littre girl ; she'll chirk her up, 
I'll warrant. She*s a regular little witch, Sally is, but she'll chirk 
her up. It a*n*t good for children to be so still and old-fashioned ; 
children ought to be children, Sally takes to Mara just cause she's 
80 different." 

" Well, now, you may," said Dame Fennel ; ** to be sure. Tie 
can't bear her out of his sight a minute after he comes in ; but, 
after all, old folks can't be company for children." 

Accordingly, that afternoon, the little Mara was arrayed in a 
little blue flounced dress, which stood out like a balloon, made by 
Miss Roxy in first-rate style, fix)m a French fashion-plate ; her 
golden hair was twined in manifold curls by Dame Fennel, who, 
restricted in her ideas of ornamentation, spared, nevertheless, 
neither time nor money to enhance the charms of this single orna- 
ment to her dwelling. Mara was her picture- ^a]Ll«rj.»"^V<:i ^k^^ 
her in the twenty- four hours as many TSivrnWoa ot C3rt^\w«^^&^ 
/over of art could deeire; and aa she tiedovet \Xift G\siSSkI% «J^^^^ 


corla a little flat hat, and saw her go dancing off along the 
sands, holding to Miss Boxy*8 bony finger, she felt she had is 
what galleries of pictures conld not buy. 

It was a good mile to the one-story, gambrel-roofed cott 
where liyed Captain Kittridge — ^the long, lean, brown man, "w 
his good wife of the great Leghorn bonnet, round, black be 
3yes, and psalm-book, whom we told you of at the funeral. 

The Captain, too, had followed the sea in his early life, h 
being not, as he expressed it, " very rugged," in time changed h 
ship for a tight little cottage on the sea-shore, and devoted himsel 
to boat-building, which he found sufficieDtly lucrative to fumisL 
his brown cottage with all that his wife^s heart desired, besides 
extra money for nick-nacks when she chose to go up to Brunswick 
or over to Portland to shop. 

The Captain himself was a welcome guest at all the firesides 
round, being a chatty body, and disposed to make the most of his 
foreign experiences, in which he took the usual advantages of a 
traveller. In fact, it was said, whether slanderously or not, that 
the Captain's yams were spun to order ; and as, when pressed to 
relate his foreign adventures, he always responded with, ** What 
would you like to hear ? " it was thought that he fabricated his 
article to suit his market. In short, there was no species of ex- 
perience, finny, fishy, or aquatic — no legend of strange and un- 
accountable incident of fire or flood— ho romance of foreign scenery 
and productions, to which his tongue was not competent, when he 
had once seated himself in a double bow-knot at a neighbour's 
evening fireside. 

His good wife, a sharp-eyed, literal body, and a vigorous 
church-member, felt some concern of conscience on the score of 
these narrations ; for, being their constant auditor, she, better than 
any one else, could perceive the variations and discrepancies of 
text which showed their mythical character, and oftentimes her 
black eyes would snap and her knitting-needles rattle with an 
admonitory vigour as he went on, and EOTaQ^^ixa^^ «iva -s^ovxVd 
unmercJfiiJ^/ oome in at the end of a naTTaWvo mXXi — 


*' Well, now, the Cap'n's told them ar stories till he begins to 
b'lieve 'em himself, / ihinkJ*^ 

But works of fiction, as we all know, if only well gotten up, have 
^ways their advantages in the hearts of listeners over plain, homely 
bruth ; and so Captain Kittridge's yarns were marketable fireside 
^mmodities still, despite the scepticisms which attended them. 

The afternoon sunbeams at this moment are painting the 
gambrel-roof-with a golden brown. It is September again, as it 
was three years ago when our story commenced, and the sea and sky 
were purple and amethystine with its Italian haziness of atmos- 

The brown house stands on a little knoll, about a hundred yards 
&om the open ocean. Behind it rises a ledge of rocks, where cedars 
and hemlocks made deep shadows into which the sun shot golden 
shafts of light, illuminating the scarlet feathers of sumach, which 
threw themselres jauntily forth from the crevices; while down 
below, in deep, damp, mossy recesses, rose ferns which autumn had 
just began to tinge with yellow and brown. The little knoll where 
the cottage stood, had on its right hand a tiny bay, where the ocean 
water made up amid picturesque rocks — shaggy and solemn. Here 
trees of the primeval forest, grand and lordly, looked down silently 
into the waters which ebbed and flowed daily into this little pool. 
Every variety of those beautiful evergreens which feather the coast 
of Maine, and dip their wings in the very spray of its ocean foam, 
found here a representative. There were aspiring black spruces, 
crowned on the very top with heavy coronets of cones ; there were 
balsamic firs, whose young buds breathe the scent of strawberries ; 
there were oedars, black as midnight clouds, and white pines with 
their swaying plumage of needle-like leaves, strewing the ground 
beneath with a golden, fragrant matting; and there were the 
gigantic, wide- winged hemlocks, hundreds of years old, and with 
long, swaying, gray beards of moss, looking white and ghostly 
under the deep shadows of their boughs. And beneath, creeping 
round trunk and matting over stones, were m^w^ ^\^^ \ttSb.>K^ ^^J^ 
^ose wJJd, beautiful thiags which embe\lva\i t\\vi %\ig.Ci.^\^«» ^i 'vi^.^e^sft 


northern forests. Long, feathery wreaths of what ate 
groimd-pincs, ran here and there in little raffles of green, and 
princess pine raised its oriental feather, with a mimic coda 
the top, as if it conceived itself to be a grown-up tree. "W^ 
patches of partridge-berry wove th^ eyergreen matting, 
plentifully with brilliant scarlet berries. Here and there, the JoU 
were covered with a carioasly inwoven tapestry of moss, oveidiA Vn^ 
with the exquisite vine of the Linnea borealis, which in. early fspBS% mf 
rings its two fidry bells on the end of every spray ; whQe dsewboi ||s 
the wrinkled leaves of the mayflower wove themselves throu^ aal 
through deep beds of moss, meditating sQently thoughts of fht |;i 
thousand little cups of pink shell which they had it in hand to 
make when the time of miracles should come round next spring. 

Nothing, in short, could be more quaintly fresh, wild, and beaa- 
tiful than the surroundings of this little cove which Cs^taiB 
Eitt ridge had thought fit to dedicate to his boat-building open- 
tious — where he had set up his tar-kettle between two great rocto 
above the highest tide-mark, and where, at the present moment, he 
had a boat upon the stocks. 

Mrs. Kittridge, at this hour, was sitting in her clean kitchen, 
very busily engaged in ripping up a silk dress, which Miss Roxy 
had engaged to come and make into a new one ; and, as she ripped, 
she cast now and then an eye at the face of a tall, black clock, 
whose solenm tick-tock was the only sound that could be heard in 
the kitchen. 

By her side, on a low stool, sat a vigorous, healthy girl of six 
years, whose employment evidently did not please her, for her well- 
marked black eyebrows were bent in a frown, and her large black 
eyes looked surly and wrathful, and one versed in children's 
grievances could easily see what the matter was— she was turning 
a sheet ! Perhaps, happy young female reader, you don't know 
what that IS— most likely not ; for in these degenerate days the 
Btrait and narrow ^^ys of self-denial, formerly thought so wholo- 

'""""^ Itlt n^^' ""'^ ^^^^ grass-grown with neglect. Childhood 
jj^^^a-days is unceaa^gly fdted and catesBed, t\ift ^im^v^^\ ^^^.^v:, 


/^ the grown people seeming to be to diaoover what the little deais 
j^t — ^a thing not always dear to the little dears themselves. But 
^ (dd times, turning sheets was thought a most especial and whole- 
'^Bie discipline for young girls ; in ibe first place, because it took 
is the hands of their betters a very nninteresting and monotonous 
tiiimr ; and in the second place, because it was such a long, strait, 
mending turnpike, that the youthful traveller, once started there* 
ipon, could go on indefinitely, without requiring guidance and 
lirection of their elders. For these reasons, also, the task was held 
Q special detestation by children, in direct proportion to their 
mount of life, and their ingenuity and love of variety. A dull 
hild took it tolerably well ; but to a lively, energetic one, it was a 
lerfect torture. 

^ X don^ see the use of sewing up sheets one side, and ripping 
cLp the other,^ at last said Sally, breaking the monotonous tick- 
bock of the dock by an observation which has probably occurred 
to every child in similar circumstances. 

" Sally Eittridge, if you say another word about that ar sheet, 
?11 whip you,*' was the very expHdt rejoinder ; and there was a 
nap of Mrs. Kittridge*s black eyes, that seemed to make it likely 
hat she would keep her word. It was answered by another snap 
rom the six-year-old eyes, as Sally comforted herself with thinking 
hat when she was a woman she'd speak her mind out in pay for 

At this moment a burst of silvery child-laughter rang out, and 
here appeared in the doorway, illuminated by the afternoon sun^^ 
3eams, the vision of Miss Roxy's tall, lank figure, with the little 
^den-haired, blue-robed fairy, hanging like a gay butterfly upon 
Jie tip of a thorn bush. Sally dropped the sheet and clapped her 
tiands, unnoticed by her mother, who rose to pay her respects to 
the ^ cunning woman " of the neighbourhood. 

"Well, now, Miss Koxy, I was 'mazin' afraid you wem*t 
i-comin\ Td just been an' got my silk ripped w^y ojid didx^^ 
lukow how to get a step further without you.^' 

*' WeV, I was Aimlun' up Cap'n Peniid'a\>«*» ^Wi\«^s»'^^ ^^ 



:aiss Uoxy ; " ami I'vo got 'cm along so, Ruey can go on mtii 'cm', ■ tT^ 
iind I tola Miss Ponnol I must oome to you, if 'twas only for a day, | - •-j. 
au-l 1 fetcliod tho little girl down, 'cause the little thing's bo Mndrf 
lont-SLuno like. I thought Sally could play with her, and chirklA] 
up a little." 

" Well, Sally," said Mrs. Kittridge, " stick in your needle, 1*1 
up your sheet, put your thimble in your work-pocket, and ibsi 
you may take the little Mara down to the cove to play ; but 1» 
sure you don't let her go near the tar, nor wet her shoes. D^J* 
hear ? " 

" Yo3, ma'am," said Sally, who had sprung up in light «A 
radiance, like a translated creature, at this unexx)ected turn i 
fortune, and performed the welcome orders with a celerity whici 
showed how agreeable they were ; and then, stooping and catcbiBg 
the little one in her arms, disappeared through tho door, with the 
golJeu curls fluttering over her own crow-black hair. 

The fact was that Sally, at that moment, was as happy as 
human creature oouM bt», with a keenness of happiness that chil- 
dren who had never been made to turn sheets of a bright aftcrnooa 
can never realise. 

The sun was yet an hour high, as she saw, by the flash of hfir 
shrewd, time-keeping eye, and she could bear her little prize down 
to tho covo, and collect unknown quantities of gold and silva 
shells, and star-fish, and salad-dish shells, and white pebbles for her, 
besides quantities of well-turned shavings, brown and white, from 
the pile which constantly was falling under her father's joiner's 
bench, and with which she would make long extemporaneous 
tresses so that they might play at being mermaids, like those that 
she had heard her father tell about in some of his sea-stories. 

-Now, railly, Sally, what you got there?" said Captain Kit- 

the big doU I see if : ,, ^^^' ' "^"^^ ^ "''°"^'^ ^'^'"'^ yo^'J a-stolea 

So this is Pennel'8 Uuil ■ w '"^**'' ^^^ ^^' time I was to PortlauJ. 

^"le gttl?— poor c\u.\A\" 


father, and we want some nice sbavings/* 
a bit, m make ye a few a-purpose," said the old man, 
lis long, bony arm, with the greatest ease, to the further * 
is bench, and bringing up a board, from which he pro* 

roll off shavings in fine satin rings, which perfectly 
the heart of the children, and made them dance with 
, truth to say, reader, there are coarser and homelier 
the world than a well-turned shaving. 
e, go now," he said, when both of them stood with both 
; " go now and play ; and mind you don^t let the baby 
et, Sally ; them shoes o* hern must have cost five-and« 
t the very least." 

unny hour before sundown seemed as long to Sally as the 
a of the sheet ; for childhood's joys are all pure gold ; and 
i up and down the white sands, shouting at every shell she 
darted up into the overhanging forest for checker-berries 
id-pine, all the sorrows of the morning came no more into 
ttle Mara had one of those sensitive, excitable natures, 

every external influence acts with immediate power, 
i by the society of her energetic, buoyant little neighbour, 
ger seemed wishful or pensive, but kindled into a perfect 
rild delight, and gambolled about the shore like a blue and 
;ed fly ; while her bursts of laughter made the squirrels 
jays look out inquisitively from their fastnesses in the old 
3. Gradually the sunbeams faded from the pines, and the 
the tide in the little cove came in, solemnly tinted with 
kked with orange and crimson, borne in from a great 
ea of fire, into which the sun had just sunk. 
3y on us— them children I" said Miss Roxy. 

bringin' 'em along," said Mrs. Kittridge, as she looked 
I window and saw the tall, lank form of the Captain, with ^ 
seated on either shoulder, and holding on by his hesd« 
jfo children were both in the highest slaX^ oi ^iLKv^xaKQ^% 
was there a more marked contraat oi iiaX\xx^, '^'^ ^^^ 

M TSE TSJOK *m •]■■*» IBCAEI0* 

v:-m«'.L 1 ^^?:p£s: . /'jb if TweiL-^iiiWLliiiiUJL .tthhiihi 

{n/vi ioiiii doD. md ibub» wiiiL ^«iii|( sfiu brTRaaic €fOt 

vAiir.nil . '3r!iile "as jdus luywel one ic ^boH: jezal siEcacei* 
*jr>iiii mil iR». irtuBe mtiiancB sbdb saBCBS^ arst^fv A pftjs^ 
j'c:i<r. xnkintT is :£is -ihiliL ^i<aiilf£ naka bm hemJL ^bbo^ taatd 
'.n'jvi vfdiuu ir^uumaanM^ iH iicew skL 3ianx» wonaa. cqhk C3 tt 
v'jii-T '2iB •lieir. gmnfimng' does 'if Aniprnt. amL Lmljim H 

Tie '.izzle Ifan ttaned ISz a ionr scric?. pcsesEei wtck m iM 
^v^iTJi 'A ^jsa. She langfiiHi ami da^fpel omt biads fiii iimiiiiiTj Mi 
-^'zfSL aet; '*x*nnL gxl die jfariiffTi fcor agnn. romni SSg a Rt^ df ; 
and 'xa:: aighs is ms Isfee and ing^ bdEsv ber wiife^ wafcefid cfs' 
ccnlii h<e raled » aleep.. 

chlVi to kei!p cciQipany along wich hQr.^ 

'^ Mi»' Penikd colter be tniiiza' of lier w^ Xa -wKxikJ^ sud lb 
K i ^/ r>}ge^ '^ Sftll j cocild cyreneir sod ban wliai sbe w« Vt more^ 
t;.r^;f; jears old ; nothin* straightens out ddUrcn like iraik. Mis' 
Vfi7^iifA sih« ju^ kecpa tbat ar dnld to look wSiT 

'■' All children aVt alike. Mis Kittrif^,'' aid Miss Ra^, 
p(^.7it^;7itioTu]j. <^Tbis Hm aVi like joor Sallj. *A hen and a 
bumble-lee can't be feched np alike, fix it how joa win I'" 


ZrrHAXiAn PKNyRL came back to 'his house in the evening, after 
Miw* Il<;xy had taken the little Mara away. He looked for the 
flow^Try fa(;o and golden hair as he came towards the door, and put 
h'vA hand in his vent-pocket, where he had deposited a small store of 
yt'ty vhiixm nhdlfl and sea curiosities, tlidnkvag oi \k<^^\d<eaaui^ of 
ihim fktkf 0oft o/0» when he should preeeiit tY^am. 


" Where's Mara?" was the fint ioquiiy after he had crossed 
the threshold. 

" Why, Roz7*s been an' taken her down to Cap'n Kittridge's to 
spend the night," said Miss Baey. ^ Boxy's gone to help Miss 
£ittridge to turn her spotted graj and black silk. We was talb'ng 
this momin' whether 'no ^twauld torn, 'caose / thought the spot was 
crershot, and wonldn^t make np on the wroDg side ; but Roxy she 
eays it's one of than ar Calcatty silks that has two sides to 'em, 
like the one yon bought MisB PenneU that we made up for her, yon 
know;" and Miss Rney arose and gave a finishing snap to the Sun- 
day pantaloons, which she had been left to ^ finish off ^' — which 
snap said, as plainly as words could say, that there was a good job 
disposed oL 

Ze^haniah stood looking as helples as animals of the male 
kind gaioaHy do when appealed to with snch prolixity on feminine 
details ; in v^y to it all, only asked, meekly — 

"Where's Mary?" 

** Mis' Fennel? Why, she's up chamber. Shell be down in a 
minute, she said ; she thoaght she'd hare time afore sapper to get 
to the bottom of the big chist, and see if that 'ere yest-pattem a'n^t 
there, and them sticks o' twist for the batton-holes, 'cause Roxy 
she says she nerer see nothin' so rotteu as that 'ere twist weV^ been 
a-workin' with, that Miss Fennel got over to Fortland ; it's a clear 
cheat, and Miss Fennel she gare moreen half a cent a stick more 
for 't than what Roxy got for her up to Brunswick ; so you see 
these 'ere Fortland BUaea charge up, and their things wa'n't lookin' 

Here Mrs. Fennel entered the room, " the Captain " addressing 
her eagerly — 

*' How came you to let Aunt Roxy take Mara off so far, and 
be gone so long?" 

" Why, law me, Captain Fennel ! the little thing seems kind o' 
lonesome. Chil'en want chil'en ; Miss Roxy says she's alto^ethdc 
too sort o* still and old-faabioned^ and must Yia^^ c^)^^% ^^\Qk:^si^ 
tocluikber up, and go she took her down to ^\jv^ ^VV^^l "^^^ 

38 Tns PEABL OF obb's island. 

tridgo ; there^s no manner of danger or harm in it, and fihel \ 
back to-morrow afternoon, and Mara will have a real good ^sml 

**Wal\ now, really," said the good man, "but iVs 'ma 

** Cap'n Pennd, youV getUn' to make an idol of that 
child," said Miss Racy. " We ha?e to watch our hearts. It m 
me of the hymn — 

' The fondness of a creature's love. 

How strong it strikes the sense— 
Thither the warm affections moye. 
Nor can we call them thence.' 

Miss Ruey's mode of getting off poetry, in a sort of high-j 
canter, with a strong thump on every accented syllable, 
have provoked a smile in more sophisticated society, but Zqpl 
listened to her with deep gravity, and answered — 

** I*m 'fraid there's truth in what you say, Aunt Ruey. 
her mother was called away, I thought that was a warning I 
should forget ; but now I seem to be like Jonah — I'm restin' 
shadow of my gourd, aud my heart is glad because of it. 
o' trembled at the praycr-meetin' when we was a-singin'— 

'The dearest idol I have known^ 
Whate'er that idol be, 
Help me to tear it from Thy throne. 
And worship only Thee.* 

" Yes," said Miss Ruey, '* Roxy says if the Lord should it 
up short on our prayers, it would make sad work with us 

'* Somehow," said Mrs. Fennel, ** it seems to me just her n 
^ver again. She don't look Uke her. I think her hair and 
ha^^nd °"^f® ^^^^ *^® Badger blood ; my mother had that s 
^^ if the L ^hT **^®^ ^^® ^^ ^^y^ ^^^® Naomi — and it 
s^^g to bran ^^^^^^ ^' given Naomi back to us ; so I hope 

hopeful , ®*^nel har^ ^ 
^ ""'» *>e<sause not V ^® ^^ ^^^ natures— gentle, trustful 

®^ deep • Bhe "waa ou^ oi \)[v^XvVOi^ Oc 


^e world whose faith rests on childlike ignorance, and who 
^v not the deeper needs of deeper natures ; such see only the 
^fthine and forget the storm. 

This conversation had been going on to the accompaniment of 
^^tter of plates and spoons and dishes, and the fizzling of sausages, 
^^^liacing the evening meal, to which all now sat down after a 
^^^^hencd grace from Zephaniah. 

" There's a tremendous gale a-brewinV' he said as they sat at 

e. ^^ I noticed the clouds to-night as I was comin* home, and 
^)inehow I felt kind o' as if I wanted all our folks snug indoors." 

" Why law, husband, Cap'n Eattridge's house is as good as ours 
fit does blow. You never can seem to remember that houses 
ion't run aground or strike on rocks in storms." 

" The Cap'n puts me in mind of old Cap'n Jeduth Scranton," 
;aid Mias B»aey, " that built that queer house down by Middle 
Bay. The Cap*n he would insist on havin' on't jist like a ship, 
md the closet-shelves had holes for the tumblers and dishes, and he 
lad all his tables and chairs battened down, and so when it came a 
ale they say the old Cap'n used to sit in his chair and hold on to 
ear the wind blow." 

'' Well, I tell you," said Captain Pennel, *' those that has fol- 
)wed the seas hears the wind with different ears from lands-people. 
7hen you lie with only a plank between you and eternity, and 
ear the voice of the Lord on the waters, it don't sound as it does 
n shore." 

And in truth, as they were speaking, a fitful gust swept by the 
LOUse, wailing, and screaming, and rattling the windows, and after 
b came the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the 
did, angry howl of some savage animal just beginning to be lashed 
nto fury. 

" Sure enough the wind is rising," said Miss Ruey, getting up 
rom the table, and flattening her snub nose against the window- 
>ane. " Dear me, how dark it is I JMeroy on us, how the waves 
iomein I— all of a sheet of foam. I pity the fiXiVja \WJ^ ^^\cMi 
m coast 6ttcb a night " 


The storm seemed to have burst ont with a sudden fury, as if 
myriads of howling demons had all at once been loosened in the 
air. Now they piped and whistled with eldritch screech round 
the comers of the honse— now they thundered down the chimney 
— and now they shook the door and rattled the casement — and 
anon mustering their forces with wild ado, seemed to career oyer 
the house, and sail high up into the murky air. The dash of the 
rising tide came with successive crash upon crash like the discharge 
of heavy artillery, seeming to shake the very house, and the spray 
borne by the wind dashed whizzing against the window-panes. 

Zephaniah, rising from supper, drew up the little stand that had 
the family Bible on it, and the three old time-worn people sat 
themselves as seriously down to evening worship as if they had been 
an extensive congregation. They raised the old psalm tune which 
our fathers called " Complaint," and the cracked, wavering voices 
of the women, with the deep, rough bass of the old sea-captain, 
rose in the uproar of the storm with a ghostly, strange wildneBSi 
like the scream of the curlew or the wailing of the wind — 

*' Spare us, Lord, aloud we pray. 
Nor let our sun go down at noon : 
Thy years are an eternal day. 
And must Thy children die so soon? " 

Miss Ruey valued herself on singing a certain weird and exalted 
part which in ancient days used to be called counter, and which 
wailed and gyrated in unimaginable heights of the scale, much as 
you may hear a shrill, fine- voiced wind over a chimney-top ; but 
altogether, the deep and earnest gravity with which the three filled 
up the pauses in the storm with their quaint minor key, had some- 
thing singularly impressive. When the singing was over, Zepha- 
niah read, to the accompaniment of wind and sea, the words of 
poetry made on old Hebrew shores, in the dim, gray dawn of the 
world — 

" The voice of the Lord is upon the waters ; the God of glory 
thundereth ; the Lord is upon many wata^. The voice of the Lord 
shaketh the wildernesB ; the Lord ?i\iaVQt\i AiJaa ^r^^^xw'^^^l'^wa^'s^QL. 


A amp IK DI6TBE3S. 41 

The Lord sittetli upon the floods, yea, the Lord dtteth King for 
ever. The Lord will give strength to his people ; yea, the Lord 
nrill bless his people with peace." 

How natunfl and home-bom sounded this old piece of Oriental 
poetry in the ears of the three. The wilderness of Eadesh, with its 
rreat cedars, was doubtless Orr^s Island, where even now the goodly 
ellowship of black-winged trees were groaning and swaying, and 
leaking as the breath of the Lord passed over them. 

And the three old people kneeling by their smouldering fireside 
umid the general uproar, Zephaniah began in the words of a prayer 
7hich Moses the man of Grod made long ago under the shadows 
)f Egyptian pyramids— " Lord, thou hast been our dwelling- 
place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, 
or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from 
eyerlastang to everlasting, thoil art God." 

We hear sometimes in these days that the Bible is no more in- 
spired of God than many other books of historic and poetic merit. 
It is a £u;t, however, that the Bible answers a strange and wholly 
3xceptional purpose by thousands of firesides on all shores of the 
3arth ; and till some other book can be found to do the same thing, 
it will not be surprising if a belief of its Divine origin be one of the 
inefiaceable ideas of the popular mind. 

It will be a long while before a translation from Homer, or a 
chapter in the Koran, or any of the beauties of Shakespeare, will 
be read in a stormy night on Orr's Island with the same sense 
of a Divine presence as the Psalms of David, or the prayer of Moses, 
the man of God. 

Boom! boom!" "What's that?" said Zephaniah, starting, as 
they rose up from prayer. " Hark ! again, tiiat's a gun— there's 
a ship in distress." 

" Poor souls," said Miss Ruey, " it's an awful night I " 

The Captain began to put on his sea coat. 

" You a'n't a goin' out," said his wife. 

" I musfc go oat along the beach a spell, and sea Vt \ ^a5i\\ss» 
mjrmore of that /ship, " 


" Mercy on us, the wind *11 blow yon over," said Aunt Rney. 

" I rayther think Tve stood wind before in my day, ** said 
Zophaniah, a grim smile stealing over his weather-beaten cheebi 
111 fuct, tho man felt a sort of secret relationship to the storm, as if 
it were in somo manner a family connection — a wild, roystering 
cou£^il^ who drew him out by a rough attraction of comradeship. 

^' Well, at any rate,'^ said Mrs. Fennel, producing a large til 
lantern perforated with many holes, in which she placed a tallov 
candle, " take this with you, and don't stay out long." 

The kitchen door opened, and the first gust of wind took off 
the old man's hat and nearly blew him prostrate. He came badL 
and shut the door. ^^I ought to have known better," he said, 
knotting his pocket-handkerchief over his head, after which he 
waited for a momentary lull, and went out into the storm. 

Miss Ruey looked through the window-pane, and saw the light 
go twinkling far down into the gloom, and ever and anon came 
the mournful boom of distant guns. 

" Certainly there is a ship in trouble somewhere," she said. 

" lie never can be easy when he hears these guns," said Mis. 
Penncl ; " but what can he do, or anybody, in such a storm — ^the 
wind blowing right on to shore?" 

" I shouldn't wonder if Cap'n Kittridge should be out on the 
beach, too," said !Miss Ruey ; " but laws, he a'n't much more than 
one of these 'ere old grasshoppers you see after fix)st comes. Well, 
any way, there a'n't much help in man if a ship comes ashore in 
such a gale as this, such a dark night, too." 

" It's kind o' lonesome to have poor little Mara away such a 
night as this is," said Mrs. Fennel ; " but who would a-thought it 
tliis afternoon, when Aunt Roxy took her ? " 

" I 'member my grandmother had a silver cream-pitcher that 
come ashore in a storm on Mare Fint," said Miss Roxy, as she sat 
trotting her knitting-needles. "Grand'ther found it half full of 
sand under a knot of sea-weed, way up on the beach. It had a 
coat of arms on it — might have belonged to some grand family, 
tliat pitcher; in the Toothacre family yeit."*^ 


^ I remember when I was a girl,** said Mrs. Fennel, " seeing 
the hull of a ship that went on Eagle Island — ^it run way up in a 
lort of gulley between two rocks, and lay there years. They split 
)ieces off it sometimes to make fires when they wanted to make a 
howder down on the beach." 

" My aunt, Lois Toothacre, that lives down by Middle Bay," 
aid Miss Ruey, " used to tell about a dreadful blow they had once 
1 time of the equinoctial storm — and what was remarkable, she 
isisted that she heard a baby crying out in the storm — she heard 
b just as plain as could be." 

" Laws a-mercy," said Mrs. Fennel, nervously, " it was nothing 
ut the wind — ^it always screeches like a child crying ; or maybe it 
sras the seals ; seals will cry just like babes." 

" So they told her — but no ; she insisted she knew the difference 
— ^it was a baby. Well, what do you think, when the storm cleared 
>ffi they found a baby's cradle washed ashore sure enough !" 

"But they didn't find any baby," said Mrs. Fennel, nervously. 

" No, they searched the beach far and near, and that cradle was 
Jl they found. Aunt Lois took it in — it was a very good cradle, 
,nd she took it to use, but every time there came up a gale, that 
r cradle would rock, rock, jist as if somebody was a-sittin* by it ; 
nd you could stand across the room and see there wasn't nobody 

" Tou make me all of a shiver," said Mrs. Fennel. 

This, of course, was just what Miss Buey intended, and she went 
►n — 

" War, you see they kind o' got used to it — they found there 
va'n't no harm come of its rocking, and so they didn't mind ; but 
\.unt Lois had a sister Cerinthy that was a weakly girl, and had 
the janders.'* Cerinthy was one of the sort that's bom with 
rails over their faces, and can see sperits ; and one time Cerinthy 
nras a yisitin' Lois after her second baby was bom, and there came 
ap a blow, and Cerinthy comes out of the keepin'-room, where the 

* Jaundice. 

*°-''^«it when AT ""* «*ori«. » «.-^ ^ ««* 

« « tie wind T ^- -T shaij „ 7 ® ^eajjej ,, , 

*<'"«ues of fl ^<»nan ni,f ^«P'n Peji« i ^ ^^ sort* 

"'« ^flection ofT "' ^'^^^ «>' her te!,?^* ^e^med T * *»«>«, as, 

^-«ne^ ;--«^r.re2T/-^^^^ 

CA^AtN l»£NK£t GETS A L(K>K AT MARA. 45 

eld age on her voice, ran them np and down, and out and in, in a 
way that would have made a laugh, had there been anybody there 
fco notice or to laugh. 

^ I remember singing that ar to Mary Jane Wilson the very 
oight she died," said Aunt Ruey, stopping. " She wanted me to 
dng to her, and it was jist between two and three in the morning ; 
ihere was jist the least red streak of daylight, and I opened the 
imidow and sat there and sung, and when I come to * over the 
lills where spices grow,* I looked round and there was a change in 
)/Lary Jane, and I went to the bed, and says she very bright. 
Aunt Ruey, the beloved has come,* and she was gone afore I 
sould raise her up on her pillow. I always think of Mary Jane at 
hsxa words ; if ever there was a broken-hearted crittur took home, 
It was her," 

At tins moment Mrs. Fennel caught sight Ijurough the window 
of the gleam of the returning lantern, and in a moment Captain 
Fennel entered dripping with rain and spray. 

" Why Cap*n I you'r e'en a'most drowned," said Aunt Ruey. 

" How long have you been gone ? You must have been a great 
vayB," said Mrs. Fennel. 

" Yes, I have been down to Cap'n Kittridge*s. I mpt Elittridge 
mt on the beach. We heard the guns plain enough, but couldn't 
lee anything, I went on down to Eittridge's to get a look at 

" Well, she's all well enough?" said Mrs. Fennel, anxiously. 

** Oh, yes, well enough. Miss Roxy showed her to me in the 
txondle-bed, 'long with Sally. The little thing was lying smiling 
in her sleep, with her cheek right up against Sally's. I took com- 
fort looking at her. I couldn't help thinking, ^So he giveth his 
beloved sleep 1 * " 

BuRmo the night and storm, the little Mara had lain sleeping 
OS guietJ7 as if the cruel sea,, that had made Viei aiiOT^^c^Ti^Qi^V^ 
b/rt^ were ber Jdnd'tempered old grandfatiiec »Xigca^\fcX ^ft^*^^- 


as he often did, with a somewhat hoane voice truly ; bat \7itl) ^ 
an undertone of protecting love. 

But toward daybreak, there came very clear and bright intohs 
childish mind a dream, having that vivid distinctness which often 
characterises the dreams of early childhood* 

She thought she saw before her the little cove where she ani 
Sally had been playing the day before, with its broad sparkHsg 
white beach of sand curving round its blue sea-mirror, and studdei 
thickly with gold and silver shells. She saw the boat of Caption 
Kittridge upon the stocks, and his tar-kettle with the smouldering 
fires flickering under it ; but, as often happens i^ dreams, a certain 
rainbow vividness and clearness invested everything, and she and 
Sally were jumping for joy at the beautiful things they found on 
the beach. 

Suddenly, there ptood before them a woman, dressed in a long 
white garment. She was very pale, with sweet, serious dark eyes, 
and slie led by the hand a black-eyed boy, who seemed to be crying 
and lookiog about as for something lost. She dreamed that she 
stood still, and the woman came toward her, looking at her with her 
sweet, sad eyes, till the child seemed to feel them in every fibre of 
her frame. The woman laid her hand on her head as if in blessing, 
and then put the boy's hand in hers, and said, " Take him, Mara, 
he is a playmate for you;" and with that the little boy's face 
flashed out into a merry laugh. The woman faded away, and 
the three children remained playing together, gathering sliells and 
pebbles of a wonderful brightness. So vivid was this vision, that 
the little one awoke laughing with pleasure, and searched under 
her pillows for the strange and beautiful things that she had been 
gathering in dreamland. 

''What's Mara looking after?" said Sally, sitting up in her 
trundle-bed, and speaking in the patronising motherly tone she 
commonly used to her little playmate. 

" All gone, pitty boy — all gone ! " said the child, looking round 
regretfully, and shaking her golden head, " pitty lady all gone ! " 

*' How queer she talks / " said Sally, wYiolagA 8lW^V«a.^^^^v!0sv^i^^a 


^ject of building a sheet-house with her fisdry neighbour, and was 
^nning to loosen the upper sheet and dispose the pillows with a 
)6w to this species of architecture, 
^* Come, Mara, let*s make a pretty house ! " she said. 

" Pitty boy outdere — out dere I " said the little one, pointing to 
te window, with a deeper expression than ever of wishfulness in 
peyes. « 

" Come, Sally Kittridge, get up this minute I " said the voice 
her mother entering the door at this moment — '* and here, put 
3se clothes on to Mara — ^the child mustn't run round in her best 
it's strange, now, Mary Pennel never thinks of such things." 

Sally, who was of an efficient temperament, was preparing ener- 
blcally to second these commands of her mother, and endue her 
tie neighbour with a coarse brown stuff dress, somewhat faded and 
ktched, which she herself had outgrown when of Mara's age — with 
oes which had been coarsely made to begin with, and very much 
.ttered by time ; but, quite to her surprise, the child, generally so 
ssive and tractable, opposed a moat unexpscted and desperate re- 
banoe to this operation. She began to cry, and to sob, and shake 
• curly head, throwing her tiny liands out in a wild species of 
akish opposition, which had, notwitlistanding, a quaint and 
gular grace on it, while she stated her objections in all the little 
glish at her command. 

"Mara don't want — ^Mara want pitty boo des — and pitty Bhoesy 

*'Why, was ever anything like it?" said Mrs. Kittridge to 
as Roxy, as they both were drawn to the door by the outcry; 
lere's this child won't have decent everyday clothes put on her, 
» must be kept dressed up like a princess. Now, that ar's 
ench calicor 1 *' said Mrs. Kittridge, holding up the controverted 
le dress, " and that ar never cost a cent under five-and-sixpence 
^ard ; it takes a yard and a half to make it — and it must have 
m a good day's work to make it up ; call that three-and -six- 
ice more, and with them pearl buttons and thread and all, that 

dress never costless than a dollar aud aev^ii^^-^^^,^ ^sv^\NKt^ 
^'agoia^ to run out every day in it 1 " 


^^ Well, well 1 '* said Miss Rozy, wbo had taken €tu 
one in her lap ; '^ you know, Miss Kittridge, this *ere*£ 
lamb, an old-folks darling, and things he with her as 
we can^t make her oyer, and she^s such a nerrous li 
mostn^ cross her ;** saying which, she proceeded to d 
in her own clothes. 

''If you had a good large checked apron, I w 
patting that on her 1 " added Miss Rozy, after she ha 

'' Here*s one,^^ said Mrs. Kittridge ; '* that may sa 

Miss Roxy began to pat on the wholesome g 
rather to her mortification, the little fairy began to - 
a most heartbroken manner. 

** Don't want che't apon." 

'* Why don't Mara want nice checked apron ? '' sai 
in that extra cheerful tone by which children are to 
believe they have mistaken their own mind. 

" Don't want it !" with a decided wave of the littl 
too pitty to wear che't apon." 

" Well I well ! " said Mrs. Kittridge, rolling up h 
I ever I no, I never did. If there an't depraved na 
out early. TFe//, if she says she's pretty now, what 
she's fifteen?" 

''Shell learn to tell a lie about it by that tim 
Boxy, " and say she thinks she*s horrid. The child i 
the truth comes uppermost with her now." 

" Haw ! haw I haw I " burst with a great crash : 
Kittridge, who had come in behind, and stood silei 
during this conversation ; " that's musical now ; come 1 
maid, you are too pretty for checked aprons, and no n 
seizing the child in his long arms, he tossed her up lik 
while her sunny curls shone in the morning light. 

"There's one comfort about the child, Miss Kil 
Aunt Roxy ; " she's one of them that dirt vfow't ^Vvci^ 


her to fttain or tear her dotheB— ehe always oome in jist so 

^- I* She aint mnch like Sally, thenl** said Mis. Eittridgc. 
Ihat girl *11 run through mpre clothes I Only last week she 
. .^llDced the crown out of my old black straw bonnet, and left it 
^imging on the top of a blackberry bush.^ 

" Wal', wal'," said Captain Kittridge, " as to dressin' this 'ere 
^aihild — why, ef Fennel^s a mind to dress her in doth of gold, it*s 
^none ef our business I He*s rich enough for all he wants to do, and 
•0 let*s eat our breakfast and mind our own business." 

After breakfast Captain Eittridge took the two children down 
to the coye, to investigate the state of his boat and tar-kettle, set 
high aboTe the highest tide-mark. 

The sun had risen gloriously, the sky was of an intense, viyid 
blue, add only great snowy islands of clouds, lying in silver 
banks on the lK>ri«)n, showed vestiges of last night^s storm. The 
whole wide sea was one glorious scene of forming and dis- 
solving mountains of blue and purple, breaking at the crest into 
brilhant silver. AU round the island the waves were constantly 
leaping and springing into jets and columns of brilliant foam, 
throwing themselveB high up, in silvery cataracts, into the very 
arms of the solemn evergreen forests which overhung the shore. 

The sands of the Httle cove seemed harder and whiter than 
ever, and were thickly bestrewn with the shells and sea-weed 
which the nptumings of the night had brought in. There lay 
what might have been fringes and fragments of sea-gods* vestures — 
blue, crimson, purple, and orange sea-weeds, wreathed in tangled 
ropes of kelp and sea-grass, or lying separately scattered on the 
sands. The children ran wildly, touting as they began gathering 
sea-treasnreB; and Sally, with the air of an experienced hand in 
the bnsinen, untwisted the coils of ropy sea-weed, from which 
every moment she disengaged some new treasure, in some rarer 
shell or smoother pebble. 

Suddenly, the child shook out something fcom^VsiC^K^x&s^ss^ 
of BOhgnm, which sho held up with a perfect doccvSK. ^ ^<^5i^« 



It was ft faraoelei of hair, fiMtened bj ft MDlaiitclaBpo 
stones, soch as she had never seen before. 

She redoaUed her cries of delight, as she saw it q^aiUe\ 
her and the son, calling upon her father. 

** Father I father I do come here, and see whftt Tve fiHUi 

He came quickly, and took the bracelet from the child's 
but, at the same moment, looking over her head, he canghi 
of an object partially concealed behind ft projecting rock. Hi 
ft st^ forward, and uttered an exclamation*- 

*^ Well, Weill soreenooghl poorthingsl*' 

There lay, bedded in sand and sea-weed, ft womfta with al 
boy clasped in her arms! Both had been careAilly lashed to a b^ 
but the child was held to the bosom of the woman, with ft proft 
closer than any knot that mortal hands could tie. 

Both were deep sunk in the sand, into which had streamed 1 
woman's bng, dark hair, which sparkled with glittering moneli 
sand and pebbles, and with those tiny, brilliant, yellow sb 
which are so numerous on that shore. 

The woman was both young and beautifuL The forehs 
damp with ocean -spray, was like sculptured marble — ^the fl( 
brows dark and decided in their outline; but the long, hea^ 
black fringes had shut down, as a solemn curtain, over all 1 
history of mortal joy or sorrow that those eyes had looked 191 
A wedding-ring gleamed on the marble hand; but the sea 1 
divorced all human ties, and taken her as a bride to itselfl Ai 
in truth, it seemed to have made to her a worthy bed, for she 1 
all folded and enwreathen in sand and shells and sea- weeds, an 
great, weird-looking leaf of kelp, some yards in length, lay twii 
around her like a shroud ! 

The child that lay in her bosom had hair, and &oe, and eg 
lashes like her own, and his little hands were holding tight!; 
portion of the black dress which she wore. 

^*' Cold — cold — stone dead I " was the muttered exdamatum 
the old seaman, as he bent over the woman. 

** She must have struck her head there^" hj^israA^ aa ha li 


bg^ on a dark, braised spot on hest temple. He laid his band 

be child's heart, and pat one finger under the arm to see it 

9 neas any lingering vital heat, and then hastily cat the 

ngs that bound the pair to the spar, and with difficulty disen- 

d the child from the cold clasp in which dying love had bound 

to a heart which should beat no more with mortal joy or 


ally, after the first moment, had run screaming toward the 

), with all a child^s forward eagerness, to be the bearer of 

; but the little Mara stood, looking anxiously, with a wishful 

fitness of face. 

Pittyboy— pittyboy— oomel" she said often; but the old 

was so busy, he scarcely regarded her. 

Now, Cap'n Eittridge, do tellT^ said Miss Boxy, meeting 

in ail haste, with ca^-border stiff in air, while Dame Eittridge 


^Now you don't! Well, well ! didn't I say that was a ship 

light? And what a solemnisiDg thought it was, that souls 

t be goln' into eternity I " 

We must have blankets and hot bottles, right away !" said 

Roxy, who always took the earthly view of matters, and who 

in her own person, a personified humane society. ^^Miss 

idge, yoa jist dip out your dishwater into the smallest tub, 

re'U put him in. Stand away, Mara I Sally, you take her 

f the way! We'll fech this child to> perhaps. IVe feohe^ 

oo, when they's seemed to be dead as door-nails !" 

Cap'n Eittridge, you're sure the woman's dead?" 

Laws, yes ; she had a bbw right on her temple here. There's 

inging her to till the resurrection." 

Well, then, you jist go and get Cap'n Fennel to come down 

lelp you, and get the body into the house, and we'll attend to 

.' out by-and-by. Tell Ruey to come down." 

Lunt Boxy issued her orders with all the military vigour and 

ision of a general in case of a sudden attack. It -^^ V<^ 

t. Sickness and death were her oppottvu[i\^v%&\ "vXi^^x^ ^eX^«^ 


were, she felt hendf at home, and she addrened lietael! i 
taak before her with undoabting faith. 

Before many hours a pair of large, dark ejea dowly emerged . 
under the black-fringed lids of the little drowned boj— they n 
dreamily round for a moment, and dropped again in heavy Isng 

The little Mara had, with the quiet persistence which fontt 
trait in her baby character, dragged stools and chairs to the b 
of the bed, which she at last succeeded in scaling, and sat oppoi 
to where the child lay, grave and still, watching with intes 
earnestness the process that was going on. 

At the moment when the eyes had opened, she stretched foci 
lier little anns, and said, eagerly, ^^Pittyboy, come'* — and then 
OS they close^l again, she dropped her hands with a sigh of diap' 
pointmcnt. Yet, before night, the little stranger sat up in be^i 
and laughed with pleasure at the treasures of shells and pebbta 
which the children spread out on the bed before him. 

He was a vigorous, well-made, handsome child, vdth brilliant 
eyes and teeth, but the few words that he spoke were in a langaage 
unknown to most present. Captain Kittridge declared it to to 
Spanish, and that a call which he most passionately and ofta 
repeated was for his mother. But he was of that happy age yrhm 
sorrow can be easily effaced, and the efforts of the children called 
forth joyous smiles. When his playthings did not go to his likizigi 
he showed sparkles of a fiery, irascible spirit. 

The little Mara seemed to appropriate him in feminine fashion, 
as a chosen idol and graven image. She gave him at once a]l her 
slender stock of infantine treasures, and seemed to watch with an 
ecstatic devotion his every movement— often repeating, as she 
looked delightedly around, " Pitty boy, come,'*'* 

She had no words to explain the strange dream of the morning; 
it lay in her, struggling for expression, and giving her an interest 
in the new comer as in something belonging to herself. Whence 
it came — whence come multitudes like it, which spring up aa 
strange, enchanted flowers, every now and then in the doll, 
material pathway of life — who knowa? 


3t may be that our present fEumities have among them a 
^&ienta]y one, 13ce the germs of wings in the chrysalis, by 
^oh the spiritual world becomes sometimes an object of percep- 
'^ — ^there may be natures in which the walls of the material are 
%ie and translucent that the spiritual is seen through them as a 
^ darkly. It may be, too, that that love which is stronger 
^ death has a power sometimes to make itself heard and felt 
trough the walls of our mortality, when it would plead for the 
itenceless ones it has left behind. All these things may be — 

k> knows? 

• . « « « « « 

** There," said Miss Roxy, coming out of the keepin'-room at 
Bsei ; " I wouldn't ask to see a better-lookin' corpse. That ar 
nnan was a sight to behold this morning. I guess I shook a 
noble bandfiil of stones and them little shells out of her hair — 
ifw she reelf looks beautifuL Captain Elittridge has made a 
ffin out o' some cedar-boards he happened to have, and I lined it 
th bleached cotton, and stuffed the pillow nice and fiill, and 
ten we come to get her in, she reely will look lovely." 

^ I s*po6e. Miss Elittridge, youll have the funeral to-morrow- 

" y^jj yes, Aunt Roxy — ^I think everybody must want to 
srove such a dispensation. Have you took little Mara in to 
k at ihe corpse ? " 

^ Well, no," said Miss Boxy ; " Miss Fennel's gettin' ready to 
jQ her home." 

<< I think it's an opportunity we ought to improve," said Mrs. 
ttridge, ''to learn children what death is. I think we can't 
1^ to solemnise their minds too young." 

At this moment Sally and the little Mara entered the room. 

M Ck>me here, children," said Mrs. Eattridge, taking a hand of 
her one, and leading them to the closed door of the '* keeping- 
»! ; " " I've got somethin' to show you." 

The room looked ghostly and dim — ^the rays of light felltluKSQij^ 
e dosed shatter on an object mysteriously mofiLoi \Ti^^\^u^^<^« 


Sally *8 bright hce ezpreBsod only the Tagae cnriontj cf t 
to see lomcthing new ; but the little Mara noated and hust 
with all her force, so that Mn. Kittridge was obliged to td 
up and hold her. 

She folded back the sheet from the chill and wintry form' 
lay 80 icily, lonely, and cold. Sally walked aiound ifc 
gratified her carioaity by seeing it from every point of viei 
laying her warm, boay hand on the lifeleeB and cold one', 
Mara clung to Mrs. Kittridge, with eyes that expressed a ^b 
astonishment. The good woman stooped orer and placed 
child^s little hand for a moment on the icy forehead. The 
one gave a piercing scream, and straggled to get away ; tt 
•oon as she was pat down, she ran and hid her face in Aunt Ei 
dress, sobbing bitterly. 

" That child '11 grow up to follow vanity," said Mrs. Kittrii 
" her little head is fall of dress now, and she hates anything ser 
— ^it's easy to see that." 

The little Mara had no words to tell what a strange, distre 
chill had passed up her arm and through her brain, as she Mi 
icy cold of death — ^that cold so different from all others. It wi 
impression of fear and pain that lasted weeks and months, so 
sho would start out of sleep and cry with a terror which she 
not yet a sufficiency of language to describe. 

" You seem to forget, Miss Kittridge, that this ^ere ch^M 
rugged like our Sally," said Aunt Boxy, as she raised the I 
Mara in her arms. " She was a seven-months' baby, and han 
raise at all, and a shivery, scary little creature." 

" Well, then, she ought to be hardened," said Dame Eittrii 
"But Mary Fennel never had no sort of idea of bringin' 
cliildren — 'twas jist so with Naomi — ^the girl never had no sd 
resolution, and she just died for want o' resolution— that's n 
came of it. I tell ye, children's got to learn to take the worl 
it is ; and 'tan't no use briugin' on 'em up too tender. Teach 
to begin as they've got to go on — ^that's my maxim.'* 

" Miss Kittridge," said Aunt Roxy^ "there's reason in 

eoHBTHnro to talk about* 65 

Pt and there's difference in children. * What's one's meat 'a 

"b pison.' Yoa oonldnt fetch tip Miss Fennel's children, 

ihe couldn't fetch np yonm-HBO let's say no more 'bout it.** 

^^^ *rm always a-tellin' my wife that ar," said Captain 

.^^^(ridge; ^'she^ always wantin' to make ererybody over after 

. ^^^pattem.** 

, ^^ Gap'n Kittridge, I don't think yott need to speak," resumed 

^ilwife. '* When snch a load proyidenoe is a-knockin' at your 

; ?Pltar, I think yoa'd better be aHsearchin' yonr own heart — ^here it 

" ' ^ihe eleventh hour, and you ha'n't come into the Lord's vineyard 

^- *^ Oh! come, come, liiss Kittridge, don't twit a fellow afore 
L^ idks,'' said the Captain. '^ Tm goin' over to Harps well Neck this 

Uessed minute after the minister to tend the funeral-nao we'll let 




tarm on any shore is a dull affiiir— ever degenerating into common* 
place ; and this may account for the eagerness with which even a 
great calamity is sometimes accepted in a neighbourhood, as afford* 
ing wherewithal to stir the deeper feelings of our nature. 

Thus, though Mrs. Kittridge was by no means a hard-hearted 
woman, and would not for the world have had a ship wrecked on 
her particnlar account, yet since a ship had been wrecked and a 
hody floated ashore at her very door, as it were, it afforded her no 
inconsiderable satisfaction to dwell on the details and to arrange 
for the ftmersL 

It was something to talk about and to think of, and likely to 
fcinush subject-matter for talk for years to come when she should 
go out to tea with any of her acquaintances who lived at Middle 
Bay, or Maqodt, or Harpswell Neck. For although in those days 
— the number of light-houses being much smaller than it is now 
— it was no uncommon thing for ships to be driven on shore ia 
stomas, fet tMs incident had undeniably more tii^Vi "wqa ^Ycroi^^ «sA 


rouiADtic iu it than any within the memory of any tea-ww \ 
in the Tusinity. Mrs. Kittridge, therefore, looked forwwd 
funeral aervicet on Sunday aftiemoon as to a species of ete 
which imparted a sort of oonsequenoe to her dwelling v^^ 
Notice of it was to be given out in " meeting ** after service, 

might expect both " keeping-room " and kitchen to be &I! 

Fennel had offered to do her share of Christian and neii 

kindnen, in taking home to her own dwelling the little 1 

fact, it became necessary to do so in order to appease the f 

the little Mara, who clung to the new acquisition with moi 

fondness, and wept bitterly when he was separated from 

for a few moments. Therefore, in the afternoon of th( 

body was found, Mrs. Fennel, who had come down to as 

back in company with Aunt Kuey and the two children. 

The September evening set in brisk and chill, and tb 

fire that snapped and roared up the ample chimney oj 

Kittridge^s kitchen was a pleasing feature. The days of 

were before the advent of those sullen gnomes, the " air-i 

even those more sociable and cheery domestic genii, tb 

ttoves. Those were the days of the genial open kitchen 

the crane, the pot-hooks, and trammels— where hissed a 

the sodal tea-kettle, where steamed the huge dinner-pot, 

ample depths beets, carrots, potatoes, and turnips boile 

BociabiHty with the pork or corned beef which they were d 

flai^L at the coming meal. 

On the present evening, Miss Roxy sits bolt uprio-ht 
wont, in one corner of the fire-place, with her specttck 
nose, and an unwonted show of candles on the little star 
her^ha^ing resumed the t^ of tiie silk dress which hadb 
eeason mterrupted. Mrs. Kittridge, with her sDecfc! 
e^^SZur^^^^^.--^^ "iingupb:L?S 

^'''^^''^J^Th^^^^^ ^^^ ^*^«^ <5orner busily whittL 

^ shapmg to please Sally, ^vho sits c 


j^ ^ ^^ his side with her knitting, evidently more intent on wUaI 
- ^ther is producinir than on the eyenini; task of ^' ten 

'^\^^t)ier is producing than on the evening task of ^' ten bouts/* 

^^w|^ her mother exacted before she conld freely give her mind to 

^^^^^^g on her own. account. As Sally was rigorously sent to 

-^^^j^ CiXactly at eight o^clock, it *-'^«— '* '*»'»- ^"^ *-^ ^;i:,~^«4- ;r «k« 

X;^r*^*ai to do anything for 

became her to be diligent if she 
her own amusement before that 

.^ And in the next room, cold and still, was lying that faded image 

'^^youth and beauty which the sea had so strangely given up. 

^thout aname, without a history, without a single accompaniment 

%Qm which her past could even be surmised — there she lay, sealed in 

eternal silence. 

" It^s strange,^* said Captain Eittridge, as he wliittled away — 
it's very strange we don^t find anything more of that ar ship* 
Tve been all up and down the beach a-lookin\ There was a spar 
and some broken bits of boards and timbers come ashore down on 
the beach, but nothin' to speak of." 

" It won't be known till the sea gives up her dead," said Miss 
Boxy, shaking her head solemnly, " and there ^11 be a great givin* 
up then^ Tm a-thinkin\" 

" Yes, indeed," said l^Irs. Eattridgc, with an emphatic nod. 
" Father," said Sally, " how many, many things there must bo 
at the bottom of the sea — so many ships are sunk with all their 
fine things on board. Why don^t people contrive some ways to go 
down and get them ? " 

" They do, child," said Captain Eittridge ; " they have diving- 
bellfl, and men go down in ^em with caps over their faces, and long 
tubes to get the air through, and they walk about on the bottom 
of the ocean." 

'* Did you ever go down in one, father ? " 
<* Why, yes, child, to b^ sure ; and strange enough it was, to be 
sure. There you could see great big sea critters, with ever so many 
eyes and long arms, swimming right up to catch you, and all you 
could do would be to muddy the water on the bottom so they 
couldn't see you." 


" I iMfer heard of (kat^ Captain Kittridge,** sadd Iub 
drawing hendf up wiUi a reproring coolnen. 

*' Wal\ Min Kittridge, you ha'n't heard of everythingllui^ 
happened,'* said the Captain, impertorbabljr, ^* though you do\ 
a mght.** 

" And how does the bottom of the ocean look, &ther? ** « 

" Laws, child, why trees and bushes grow there, jast as they 
on land ; and great plants — blue, and purple, and green, ft 
yellow, and lots of great pearis lie round. I'ye seeu 'em Ing \ 
cliippin'-Hrds' eggs." 

" Cap'n Kittri<lge I " said his wife. 

" I have, and big as robins' eggs, too, but them was off ^ 
coast of Ceylon and Malabar, and way round the Equator," said, 
the Captain, prudently resolved to throw his romance to a sufficienl 

^* It's a pty you didn't get a few of them pearls," said his wife 
with an indignant appearance of scorn. 

" I did get lots on 'em, and traded 'em off to the Nabobs in tiM 
interior for Cashmere shawls and India silks and sich/' said tlu 
Captain, composedly, *' and thought 'em home and sold 'em at i 
good figure, too." 

^* Oh, father I " said Sally, earnestly, " I wish you had sayed jusi 
one or two for us." 

**' Laws, child, I wish now I had," said the Captain, good-na' 
turedly. ^^ Why, when I was in India, I went up to Lucknow, 
and Benares, and round, and saw all the Nabobs and Biggums- 
why, they don't make no more of gold and sUver and predoui 
stones than we do of the shells we find on the beach. Why, Tn 
seen one of them fellers with a diamond in his turban as Ing as mj 

" Cap'n Eattridge, what are you telling ? " said his wife ono( 

'* Fact — as big as my fist," said the Captain, obdurately ; ^' an< 
all the clothes he wore was jist a stiff crust of peaxla «xLd ^t^oui 


Hones. I tell yofo, he looked like aomething in the BeveUticpi— a 
^^ New Jerankiii Ifxk he had." 

'*/ can that ar talk wicked, Cap*n Stiridge, nni' Scr^;^^ 
that ar way,** said his wife. 

^^Why, dontittell about all soitBof gdd and piecioiis stones 
in the Revelations?'' said the Captain; ''that's all I meant. 
Them ar countries off in Asia a'n't like onr'n — stands to reason 
they shoaldn't be; them's Scripture oonntries, and everything is 
different there." 

^Father, didnt yon ever get any of those splendid things? " 

" Laws, yes, child. Why, I had a great green ring, an emerald, 
that one of the princes giv' me, and ever so many pearb and 
diamonds. I used to go with 'em rattHn* loose in my vest pocket. 
I was yomg and gay in them days, and thought of bringin' of 'em 
home ftr the gals, but somehow I always got opportonitles for 
Bwappin' of 'em off for goods and sich. That ar shawl your mother 
keeps in her camfire chist was what I got for one on 'em." 

^ Well, well," said Mrs. Kittridge, " there's never any catchin' 
rou, 'cause you've been where we haven't." 

''You've caught me once, and that oughfr do," said the 
Haptain, with unruffled good-nature. "I tell you, Sally, your 
nother was the handsomest gal in Harpswdll in them days." 

" I should think you was too old for such nonsense, Cap'n," 
laid Mrs. Kittridge, with a toss of her head, and a voice that 
loiinded far less inexorable than her former admonition. 

In &ot, though the old Captain was as unmanageable under 
lis wife's fireside regime as any brisk old cricket that skipped and 
lang around the hearth, and though he hopped over all moral 
xmndaries with a cheerful alertness of consdenoe that was quito 
ysoouraging, still there was no resisting the spell of his inex* 
laustiUe good-nature. 

By this time he had finished the little boat, and, to Sally^s 
preat ddight, began sailing it for her in a pail of watw. 

'*! wcmder, " eaid Mrs. Kittridge, *^ wYnX'a \A\y^ i^xA^^ir^'^fiaX 


ar uhild. I tuppose the aclect-mon will take caro on^t ; it^U b 
brought up by the town." 

'' I ahouldn^t wonder," aaid Miai Boxy, <" if Gap'n Fennel 
^houlll adopt it." 

" You don t think ao," aaid Mia. Kittiidge. «" Twonld be 
taking a great care and expense on their hands at their time oC 

" I wouldn't want no better fun than to bring up that Httle 
shaver," eaid Captain Kittridge; "he's a bright 'an, I promise 

" Yuu, Cap'n Kittridge ! I wonder you can talk ao," aaid his 
^vife. '* It's an awful responsibility, and I wonder you don't think 
whether or no you're fit for it." 

** Why, down here on the shore, Fd as liyea undertake a boy 
08 a Newfoundland ^up," said the Captain. " Plenty in the sea 
to eat, drink, and wear. That ar young 'un may be the ataff of 
their old age yet." 

"You see," said Miss Roxy, "I think they'll adopt it to be 
company for little ^lara ; they'r' bound up in her, and the little 
thiiijj: pines being alone." 

" Well, they make a real graven image of that ar child," said 
Mrs. Kittridge, " and fairly bow down to her and worship her." 

" Well, it's natural,'' said Miss Boxy. " Besides, the little 
tiling is cunning ; she's about the cunningest little crittor that I 
ever saw, and has such enticing ways." 

The fact was, as the reader may perceive, that Miss Roxy had 
been thawed into an unusual attachment for the little Mara, and 
tliis affection was beginning to spread a warming element through 
her whole being. It was as if a rough granite rock had suddenly 
awakened to a passionate consciousness of the beauty of some 
fluttering white anemone that nestled in its deft, and felt warm 
thrills running through aU its veins at every tender motion and 
shadow. A word spoken against the little one seemed to rouse 
her combativeness. Nor did Dame Kittridge bear the child the 
slightest ill-will, but she was one of those naturally care-taking 


people whom Providence seems to design to perfbrm the picket 
duties for the rest of society, and who, therefore, challenge every* 
body and thing to stand and gire an account of themselves. 

Miss Roxy herself belonged to this class, but sometimes foond 
herself so sfcontly overhauled by the gmis of Mrs. Eittridge^ 
battay, that she conld only stand modestly on the defensive. 

One of Mrs. Eittridge^s favourite hobbies was education^ or, 
IS she phrased it, the " fediin' up " of children, which she held 
ihould be performed to the letter of the old stiff rule. In this 
manner she had ah-eady trained up six sons, who were all following 
/heir fortunes upon the seas, and, on this account, she had no 
small conceit of her abilities ; and when she thought she discerned 
Bk lamb being lefb to frisk heedlessly out of bounds, her zeal was 
Btlrred to bring it under proper sheepfold regulations. 

"^ Come, Sally, it^s eight o^clock," said the good woman. 

Sally^ dark brows lowered over her large, black eyes, and she 
gave an appealing look to her fSftther. 

"Law, mother, let the child sit up a quarter of an hour later, 
list for once." 

" Cap'n Eittridge, if I was to hear to yon, there^d never be no 
rule in this house. Sally, you go 'long this minute, and be sure 
^oa put your knittin* away in its place." 

The Captain gave a humorous nod of submissive good-nature 
bo his daughter as she went out. In fact, putting Sally to bed 
was taking away his plaything, and leaving him nothing to do 
tmt study faces in the coals, or watch the fleeting sparks which 
3hased each other in flocks up the sooty back oi the chimney. 

It was Saturday night, and the morrow was Sunday — never 
a yery pleasant prospect to the poor Captain, who, having, unfor- 
tunately, no s^mtual tastes, found it very difficult to get through 
the day in compliance with his wiie^s views of propriety, for he, 
alas I soared no higher in his aims. 

"I b'lieve, on the hull, Polly, I'll go to bed too," said he, 
suddenly starting up. 

" WeU, father, your clean shirt is in n^lA^TA ^Twst <^^. "^^ 

C2 t:ie ruku. or ouk*« islassl 

upper drawer, and jour Saaday f lotkei aa tko bMkoCOedtf 
bj the bed." 

The fadwai that the G^tain pranind biiiMdf tbtt fknai 
of a long co n T e imaon with Sal^, who needed in the teinidle4iei 
ander the paternal ooudi, to whom he coold idato long, anif- 
coloured jam, withoat the danger oCinleDiiption fiDomhernoU^ 
sharp, truth-eeeking Toioeu 

A moialiit mi^t, perh^n, be pmded exactlj whai aeeont 
to make of the Captain^ dupoBtion to romancing and emfaraidflEf. 
In all real, matter-of-fact traiwacriona, aa between man and mia, 
his word was as good as another's, and he was held to be hooeik 
and just in his dealings. It waa only when he nnmnted the stihiof 
foreign trayel that his paces became so enormooa. Feriiapa, ate 
all, a rude poetic and artistic fiusolcy poBMBBed the man. Hemi^ 
have been a humbler phase of the "mate, iD^^oriooa JtClton." 
Perhaps his narrations required the privilege And aOowanoeBdnB 
to the inyentire arts generally. Certain it was that, in oommon 
with other artists, he required an atmosphere of sympathy and 
confidence in which to develop himsdf fidly ; and, when lefi ahme 
with children, his mind ran such riot, that the bounds between the 
real and unreal became foggier than the banks of Xewfoondland. 

The two women sat up, and the night wore on apaoe, whils 
they kept together that customary vigil which it waa thoiij^ 
necessary to hold over the lifeless casket ficom which an inmuvtsl 
jewel had recently been withdrawn. 

""I re*lly did hope,** said Mrs. Kittridge, mournfully, »» that this 
ere solemn Providence would have been set home to the Cap*n a 
mind ; but he seems jist as light and triflin' as ever.'* 

'* There don't nobody see these 'ere things unless they's effectu* 
•"y f»^»" said MisB Eoxy, "and the Cap'n's time a'n't come." 

"It*8 gettin' to be t'ward the. eleventh hour," said Mrs 
Kittndge, *' as I was a-tellin' him this afternoon." 
^«^'' said Miss Boxy, ** you know 

' While the lamp holds out to biiniy 
The vilest nnner may refcurn.' " 


^ Yes, I know tiiai." «id MA Kittrids^ ring ^ 
^ eaodk. ^Dont joa tUnky Aant Boo^, ve maj m vdl giia 
%]ook m then at ibe ecspn?" 

It WIS pMt midnight aa tjigr wqrt togeflier mio the ** fcecping* 
Mb." AnwwaostfflthtttthedMhof thexMDgtidBaDdthe 
B l Hng of the dock MH iiim il flat Mlemn and moornM dwiinc tn e » 
vUch even tonea lea in^TCHm take on in tiie m^ watdieB. 

Ifiaa BoQcjwent medianiRaDy thioogh with eertain asnaDge- 
■cntaof the white dia | >tty ai u un d the cold deeper, and micoreriiig 
he fiu» and biBtfo a Mioaienik kiokedcriticallj at tiie atiU iincon* 

««]|lbionetfaiiigtolet QiknowwhoorwhatdieiB,** die aaid; 
* that boj, if he liYea, would ghre a good deal to know some daj.** 

"« What k it one^ duty to do about this hcacdet?** saidMn. 
Kktaciige, taking from a drawer tiie artide in qneetion, wbidi had 
been ftoid on the beadi in tiie morning. 

**Wdl^ iB'poee it bdongs totiiechikE, idiatever ifii worth,** 

^Then if the Peonds condode to take it, Imay as wdl gire it 
o them,** said Mn. Kittridge, htying it bade in the drawer. 

MiflB Boxy folded the doth back orer the fiioe, and the two 
rent oat into the kitdien. The fire had sonk k>w — the cridLets 
vere diirnqping g^eefaS j. Mn. Kittridge added more wood, and 
mt on the tea-kettle that their watdiing might be refireshed by 
heaidofiiatalkatiTe and inqpningbeyemge. The two solemn, 
lard-Tiaaged women drew np to eadi other by the fire, and insen- 
obly their rery TDioea awmmed a tone of diowBy and confidential 

«« If this *ere poor woman was hopefolly pious, and coold see 
irhat was goin* on here,** said Mrs. Kittridge, ^itwooldseem to 
be aoomfi>rt to her that her child has Men into such good hands, 
[t seems a^taiost a pity she cooldnt know it.** 

"HowdoknowshedcmH?** said Miss Boizy, bmsqndy. 

** Why, yon know the hymn,** said Mrs. Kittridge, quoting 
those Bomewhat muJdaaaical lines from the popo\ax igBti^asi'^xy^ — 






ry^f^' tto 

" TVeii, 




••" a'o't 











•***«*; l.^Ptor 

'" evcFy I. ^^o Jag* *^''*atio» 




^•^t must r'? Of tb.^^^ ^J""- to T* «•« QBI^, 




o'X"^ '^*?1f ^^'C^ *» *^ 


. ^«. fc" ' "^ «ot^^^*^ / ^ Vo/£ 

+^ * pause ,v ■* Wg «. * ^on'f *5Pei»it 9 

retting ""« 




^Z"^ ^rp'-VJ^t^^Z^^ 


^ *«ie „t* ^-tt 





f if **» t^t T, *^e that Z^ ^hf^. 

^t Jl;j3 



;k ticked witH still mOTe empressementy and Mrs. 
ared through the horn bows of her glasses with eyes 

yon remember Cap*n Titcome'a wife that died fifteen 
when her husband had gone to Archangel, and you 
that he took her son John oat with him — and of all her 
1 was the one she was particular sot on.** 
and John died at Archangel ; I remember that.** 
so,^' said Miss Boxy, laying her hand on Mrs. Kittridge*s ; 
at Archangel the very day his mother died, and jist the 
' the Cap'n had it down in his log-book.^* 
tu. don*t say so I " 

is I do. Well, now," said Miss Roxy, sinking her Yoice, 

ire was remarkable. Mis^ Titcome was one of the fearful 

JO* one of the best women that sTer lived. Our minister used 

i her *• Miss Muchafraid * — ^you know, in the ^ Pilgrim's Pro- 

— bat he was satisfied with her evidences, and told her so ; 

Jed to say she was ' afraid of the dark valley,* and she told 

usister so when he went out, that ar last day he called ; and 

It words, as he stood with his hand on the knob of the door. 

Mis* Titcome, the Lord will find ways to bring you thro* the 

valley.' Well, she sunk away about three o'clock in the 

ing. I remember the time, cause the Cap'n's chronometer 

i that he left with her lay on the stand for her to take her 

by. I heard her kind o' restless, and I went up, and I saw 

ras struck with death, and she looked sorb o* anxious and 


^ Oh, Aunt Roxy,* says she, ' it*s so dark, who will go with 
and in a minute h^ whole face brightened up, and says she, 
1 is going with me,' and she jist gave the least little sigh and 
breathed no more — she jist died as easy as a bird. 
I told our minister of it next morning, and he asked if I*d 
a note of the hour, and I told him I had, and says he, ^ You 
ght. Aunt Roxy.' " 
What did he seem to think of it ? ** 

.^m FSABt Of OBE^S ISiAltO. 

'« WeU, lie didnt seem indined to speak freely. ^IGsBoi 
says he, *all natiir*B in the Lord's hands, and there^snoBapg^ 
he uses this or that^ them that's strong enough to go '.by ^ 
lets 'em, but there's no saying what he won't do for the ^ 
ones.' " 

** Wa'n't the Cap'n overcome when you told him?" said tt 

'* Indeed he was ; he was jist as white as a sheet." 

Miss Roxy now proceeded to pour out another cup of tea, aB 
having mixed and flavoured it, she looked in a wdrd and sybil^ 
manner across it, and inquired — 

*^ Miss Kittridge, do you remember that ar Mr. Wadkins tiha 
oome to Brunswick twenty years ago, in President A.verill's days? 

'^ Yes, I remember the pale, thin, long-nosed gentleman ths 
used to sit in President Averill's pew at church. Nobody knei 
who he was or where he came from. The ooU^^e students used to 
call him Thaddeus of Warsaw. Nobody knew who he was Ifffc 
the President, cause he could speak all the foreign tongues— one 
about as well as another ; but the President he knew his story, aad 
said he was a good man, and he used to stay to the sacrameat 
regular, I remember." 

" Yes," said Miss Roxy, " he used to live in a room all aloae 
and keep himself. Folks said he was quite a gentleman, too, anc 
fond of reading." 

" I heard Cap'n Atkins tell," said Mrs. Kittridge, «* how thej 
came to take him up on the shores of Holland. You see, when h< 
was somewhere in a port in Denmark, some men come to him anc 
offered him a pretty good sum of money if he'd be at such a plac( 
on the coast of Holland on such a day, and take whoever shoulc 
come. So the Cap'n he went, and sure enough on that day there 
come a troop of men on horseback down to the beach with thif 
man, and they all bid him good-bye, and seemed to make much oi 
him, but he never told 'em nothin* on board ship, only he seemed 
kind o' sad and pining." 

•♦ Well," said Miss Roxy ; ** Ruey and I we took care o' that 


^^^ 'Ui his last sickness, and we watched with him the night he 
^^ «ind there was something qnite remarkable." 

** Bo tell now," said Mrs. Battridge. 

^V| ** Well, you see," said Miss Boxy, " he'd been low and poorly 

^Ik ^7, kind o' tossing and restless, and a little light-headed, and 

^^^ Doctor said he thought he wouldn't last till morning, and 

^ Juey and I we set up with him, and between twelve and one 

-Jr^^ said she thought she'd jist lop down a few minutes on the 

^^ sofa at the foot of the bed, and I made me a cup of toa like as 

'^ m a-doin' now, and set with my back to him," 

" Well? " said Mrs. Kittridge, eagerly. 

" Well, you see he kept a-tossin' and throwin' off the clothes, and 

I kept a-gettin' up to straighten 'em ; and once he threw out his 

anna, and something bright fell out on to the pillow, and I went 

snd looked, and it was a likeness that he wore by a ribbon round 

his neck. It was a woman^-a real handsome one — and she had on 

a low-neckcd black dress, of the cut they used to call Mario Louise, 

and she had a string of pearls round her neck, and her hair curled 

with pearls in it, and very wide blue eyes. Well, you sec, I didn't 

look but a minute before he seemed to wake up, and ho caught 

at it and hid it in his clothes. AVell, I went and sat down, and I 

grew kind o' sleepy over the fire ; but pretty soon I heard him 

speak out very clear, and kind o' surprised, in a tongue I didn't 

understand, and I looked round." 

IVIiss Boxy here made a pause, and put another lump of sugar 
into her tea. 

«* Well? " said Mrs. Kittridge, ready to burst with curiosity. 

" Well, now, I don't like to tell about these 'ere things, and 
you mustn't never speak about it ; but as sure as you live, Polly 
Kittridge, I see that ar very woman standin' at the back of the 
bed, right in the parting of the curtains, jist as she looked in the 
pictur' — ^blue eyes and curly hair, and pearls on her neck, and black 

«* What did you do ? " said Mrs. Kittridge. 

'^Do? Why, I jiat held my breath and \ocit^^^ ^\A Ssi ^ 


iiuiuitc it kiiifl o^ failed away, and I got up and went to tbe bed, I ^ -^ 
but the man was pone. lie lay there with the pleasantest smile oi 
his fiioo that ever you see ; and I woke up Ruey, and told ba 
al)Out it.'' 

Mrs. Kittri<lj;e drew a long breath. " Wliat do you thiukitwas? 

'• >Vcll," BJiid Miss lloxy, " I know what I think, but Idon^ 

think best to tell. I told Doctor Meritta, and he said there ireti 

iiii>re things in heaven and earth than folks knew about — and sol 


« • • • • « • 

^Fean while, on this same evening, the little Mara frisked like a 
lioiLSL'hol'l fairy round the hearth of Zephaniah Pennel. 

The boy was a strong-limbed, merry-hearted little urchin, and 
did full justice to the abundant hospitalities of Mrs. Fennel's tea- 
table ; and after supper little Mara employed herself in bringing 
apruiiful after apronful of her choicest treasures, and laying then 
down at his feet. Ilia great black eyes flashed with pleasure, 
and he gambolled about the hearth with his new playmate in 
perfict forgetfulness, apparently, of all the past night of fear and 

AVJien the great fiimily Bible was brought out for prayers, and 
little Mara composed herself on a low stool by her grandmother's 
side, he, however, did not conduct himself as a babe of grace. 

ire resisted all Miss Ruey's efforts to make him sit down beside 
her, and stood staring with his great black, irroycrent eyes during 
the Bible-reading, and laughed out in the most inappropriate 
manner when the psalm-singing began, and seemed disposed to 
mingle incoherent remarks of his own even in the prayers. 

''This is a pretty self-willed youngster," said Miss Rueyi 
as they rose from the exercises, " and I shouldn't think he'd been 
used to religious privileges." 

" Pcrliaps not," said Zephaniah Pennel ; " but who can say but 
what this providence is a message of the Lord to us — ^such as 
Phario's daughter sent about Jtloses — ' Take tliis child, and bring 
him up for me?'" . 


^Pd like to take him if I thought I was capable,** said Mrs. 
^ennel, timidly. " It seems a real providence to give Mara some 
^I^txmpany — the poor child pines so for want of it." 

" Well, then, Mary, if you say eo, we will bring him up with 
^Dor little Mara,*' said Zephaniah, drawing the child toward him. 
" May the Lord bless him ! " he said, laying his great brown 
Viands on the shining black curls of the child. 


Sunday morning rose clear and bright on Harpswell Bay. The 
vhole sea was a waveless, blue looking-glass, streaked with bands 
"of white, and flecked with sailing cloud-shadows from the skies 

Orr's Island, with its blue-black spruces, its silver firs, its 
golden larches, its scarlet sumachs, lay on the bosom of the deey) 
like a great many-coloured gem on an enchanted mirror. 

A vague, dreamlike sense of rest and Sabbath stillness seemed 
to brood in the air. The very spruce-trees seemed to know that it 
■was Sunday, and to point solemnly upward with their dusky 
fingers ; and the small tide-waves that chased each other up on the 
shelly beach, or broke against projecting rocks, seemed to do it 
with a chastened decorum, as if each blue-haired wave whispered 
to his brother, " Be stiU— be still." 

Yes, Sunday it was abng all the beautiful shores of Maine — 
netted in green and azure by its thousand islands, all glorious with 
their majestic pines, all musical and silvery with the caresses of the 
3ea-waves, that loved to wander and lose themselves in their 
numberless shelly coves and tiny beaches among their cedar 

Not merely as a burdensome restraint, or a weary endurance, 
came the shadow of that Puritan Sabbath. It brought with it all 
the sweetness that belongs to rest, all the sacredness that hallows 
home, all the niomorioa of patient tbriit, oi ^\i^x ct^'et^ ^K 


r*lu\<<tonc(l yet iiitoiii«3 family feeliug, of calmness, purity, awlsdf* 
rcsiiiVtiii^ ili^iiity which distinguish the Puritan household. 

It mlviiu-*! a soK-mu i>auso in all the sights and sounds of eartk 
And hi* whiise moral nature was not yet enough developed to fiH 
thi* blank with vibious of heaven, was yet wholesomely instracted 
liy his woariiioss into the secret of his own spiritual poverty. 

Zi'phaniah Penncl, in his best Sunday clothes, with his baid 
> isi^Ti- ;:K)wini,' with a sort of interior tenderness, ministered thii 
morning at hid family -altar — one of those thousand piiests ol 
(iiHrs ordaining that tend tlie sacral firo in as many families ot 
Nc'A' Kn^land, 

He liad risen with the morning star and been forth to meditate, 
a nil lanio in with his mind softened and glowing. The trancdikc 
c.ihn of eartli and sea found a solemn answer with him, as he read 
wliat a i)0ct wrote by the sea-shores of the Mediterranean ags 
ago : — '* liloss the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art 
very great; thou art clothed with honoiu* and majesty. Who 
(lovorost thyself with light as with a garment : who stretchest out 
the heavens like a curtain : who Layeth the beams of his chambers 
in the waters : who maketh the clouds his chariot : who walketh 
upon tlie wings of the wind. The trees of the Lord are full of sap; 
the cedars of Lebanon, wluch he hath planted ; where the birds make 
their nests ; as for the stork, the fir-trees are her house. O Lord, 
how manifold are thy works ! in wisdom hast thou made them alL" 

Ages ago the cedars that the poet saw have rotted into dust, 
and from their cones have risen generations of others, wide- winged 
and grand. But the words of that poet have been wafted hke 
seed to our days, and sprung up in flowers of trust and faith in a 
thousand liouseholds. 

*' AVell, now," sai'l Miss Ruey, wlicn the morning rite was over, 
** ^liss Fennel, I s'poso you and the Cap'n will bo wantin' to go to 
the nicctin', so don't you gin' yourse'ves a mite of trouble about 
the chill hen, for I'll Btay at home with 'em. The little feUer was 
starty and fretful in his sleep last night, and didn't seem to be 
quite well." 

MISS busy's bkuff-box. 71 

- ''No wonder, poor dear," said Mrs. Fennel; '4t*s a wonder 
ftildren can forget as they do.*' 

" Yes," said Mias Euey ; '' you know them lines in the 
iSnglish Reader*-* 

' Qay hope is theirs by fancy led. 
Least pleasing when possessed ) 
The tear forgot as soon as shed. 
The sunshine of the breast.' 

li^n lines all*ys seemed to me affectin'.*' 

MisB Baey's sentiment was here interrupted by a loud cry from 
le bedroom, and something between a sneeze and a howl. 

«^ Massy, what is ikAt are young un up to! " she exclaimed, 
nahing into the adjoining bedroom. 

There stood the young Master Hopeful of our story, with 
itieaming eyes and much-bedaubed face, having just, after much 
lalxmr, Bocceeded in making Miss Buey^s snuff-box fly open, which 
be did with such force as to send the contents in a perfect cloud 
Into eyes, nose, and mouth. 

The scene of straggling and confusion that ensued oannot be 
lescribed. The washings, and wipings, and sobbings, and ex- 
lortingB, and the sympathetic sobs of the little Mara, formed a 
(mail tempest for the time being that was rather appalling. 

^^ Well, this *ere*s a youngster thaVs agoin' to make work,** 
udd Miss Boey, when all things were tolerably restored. ** Seems 
bo make himself at home first thing." 

^' Poor little dear," said Mrs. Fennel, in the excess of loring 
kindness, '^ I hope he will ; he's welcome, Fm sure.'* 

** Not to my snuff-box," said Miss Ruey, who had felt herself 
attacked in a very tender point. 

" He's got the notion of lookin' into things pretty early," said 
Captain Fennel, with an indulgent smile. 

^ Well, Aunt Ruey," said Mrs. Fennel, when this disturbance 
was somewhat abated, *' I feel kind o' sorry to deprive you of your 
privileges to-day." 

*' Qb I never mind me, " said Miaa BiUeiy ^^^tvfi^^ . ^^ \J^^ ^*^^ 


big Bible, and I can fling a hymn or two by myadL ^! ^ 
a'n*t quito what it u^kU to be, but then I get a good M 
]ileasun.* out of it.** 

Aunt KiU'y« it must be known, had in her yonth been (M 
the fureiui«t Icatlera in the " singcrB^ scat," and now waain^ 
habit of ii] leaking of herself much as a retired prima donna mig^ 
\\ hu6e past successos were yet in the minds of her generaUon. 

After giving a look out of the window, to see that the duldiA 
wore within sight, she opened the big Bible at the story of theia 
plagues of Egypt, and adjusting her horn spectacles with a EOtbci 
Bidoway twist on her little pug nose, she seemed intent on ^ 
Sunday duties. A moment after she looked up and said — 

^* I don^t know but I must send a message by you over to Mis 
Deacon Badger, about a worldly matter, if Uis Sunday ; bat Ite 
been thinkin'. Miss Fennel, that there^ll have to be clothes made 
up for this 'ere child next week, and so perliaps Roxy and I had 
better stop here a day or two longer, and you teU Miss Badgar ihak 
we'll come to her a Wednesday, and so she'll bave time to haie 
that new presB-board done — the old one used to pester me so." 

*' Well, m remember," said Airs. FenneL 

^^ It seems almost impossible to prevent one's thoughts wan* 

derin' Sundays," said Aunt Ruey ; *^ but I couldn't help a-thinkin' 

I could get such a nice pair o' trowsers out of them old Sunday 

ones of the Cap'n's in the garret. I was a-lookin' at 'em last 

Tiiursday, andthinkin' what a pity 'twas you hadn't nobody to cut 

down for ; but this 'ere young un's going to be such a tarer he'll 

want somethin' real stout ; but I'll try and put it out of my mind 

till Moudiiy. Miss Peimel, you'll be sure to ask Miss Titoomb how 

Harriet's toothache is, and whether them drops cured her that I 

;in her last Sunday ; and ef you'll jist look in a minute at Major 

iroad's, and tell 'em to use bayberry wax for his blister it's bo 

ealin* ; and do jist ask if Sally's baby's eye-tooth baa come 

rough yet." 

" "^VoU, Aunt Ruey, I'll try to remember all," said Mrs. Penneli 
fehe stopd ^t the glass i|i her bedyoom, cax«&A\^ ^^\tf*S^^ tl^ 


table black edlk sliawl over her shoulders, and tying her neat 
'^^^Uet strings. 

**I s'pose," said Aunt Ruey, " that the notice of the funeral 11 

lib out after sermon." 

"Yes, I think scr," said Mrs. Pennel. 

<^^ "It's another loud call," said Miss Ruey, " and I hope it will 

- ^m the young people from their thoughts of dress and vanity — 

^^ere's Mary Jane Sanbome was all took up with gettin' feathers 

^W velvet for her fall bonnet. I don't think I shall get no bonnet 

^MuB year till snow comes. My bonnet's respectable enough— don't 

>Dn think so?" 

*' Certainly, Aunt Ruey, it looks very well." 

** Well, I'll have the pork and beans and brown bread all hot 
on table agin you come back," said Miss Ruey, *^ and then after 
diimer we'll all go down to the funeral together. Miss Pennel, 
there's one thing on my mind — what you goin' to call this ere 

"Father and I've been thinkin' that over," said l^lrs. Pennel. 

'•Wouldn't think of giv'n him the Cap'n's name? " said Aunt 

''He must have a name of his own," said Captain Pennel. 
" Gome here, sonny," he called to the child, who was playing just 
beside the door. 

The child lowered his head, shook down his long black curls, 
and looked through them as elfishly as a Skye terrier, but showed no 
indiuation to come. 

" One thing he hasn't learned, evidently," said Captain Pennel, 
^ and that is to mind." 

" Here ! " he said, turning to the boy with a little of the tone 
he had used of old on the quarter-deck, and taking his small hand 

The child surrendered, and let the good man lift him on his knee 
and stroke aside the clustering curls ; the boy then looked fixedly 
at him with his great gloomy black eyes, his litUe ^im-^^ tsivsss^^ 
and bridled cbm^a perfect Utile miniature oi "gtoxu^ \£\»3^vol<^> 


** What's your name, little boy ? " . . 

The great eyes continued looking in the same «>lemn qmex. 

" I^w, ho don't understand a word," said Zephamali, pm 
Iiis hand kindly on the child's head ; " our tongue is all bW^ 
liim. Kittridge says he's a Spanish child ; maybe from mj<^ 
Indies ; but nobody knowa— we never shall know his name. 

" Well, I dare say it was some Popish nonsense or o^ 
said Aunt Ruey; "and now he's come to a land Qi ^^^^ 
privilego3, we ought to gi^e him a good Scripture name, and start 



him well in the world." 

" Let's caU him Moses," said Zephaniah, ** because we drey Inm 

out of the water." 

*' Now, did I ever!" said Miss Ruey; " there's something in the 
Bible to fit everything, aint there? " 

''Hike MosGs, because I had a brother of that name," said Mn. 

The child had slid down from his protector's knee, and stood 
looking from one to the other gravely while this discussion was 
going on. 

"What change of destiny was then going on for him in tkia 
simple formula of adoption, none could tell ; but, surely, never 
orphan stranded on a foreign shore found home with hearts more 
true and loving. 

*• AVell, wife, I suppose we must be going," said Zephaniah. 

About a stone's throw from the open door, the little fishing- 
craft lay curtseying daintily on the small tide-waves that came 
hcking up the white pebbly shore. 

Mrs. Pennel seated herself in the end of the boat, and a pretty 

coll ^^'k ""u^ ^^® "^^ ^^^^ ^^^ s°^oo*^' P^''^ ^^^i^» ^er modest, 
sTbbatIi ..1 p ^'/""^ ^^^ ^^g^* ^^^^1 ^3res, in which was the 

beach anTLwi^^ ^^^ ^^"^^ "^^ *^^ ^"^^ children stood on the 
away, and back oT^ ^^* ^ pleasant little wind carried them 
Sunday morning psalm ^J"""^®^® "^"^^ *^® ^"^"^^ ^^ Zephaniah'a 


'' Lord, in the iiK»iimg thou sbal^ hear 

My voice ascending high — 
To thee will I direct my prayer. 

To thee lift up mine eye ; 
Unto thy house will I resort. 

To taste thy mercies there ; 
I will frequei^ thy holy court. 

And worship in thy fear." 

surface of the glassy bay was dotted here and there with 
3 sails of other little craft bound for the same point and 
uome purpose. It was as pleasant a sight as one might 

in charge of the house, Miss Ruey drew a long breath, 
nsoling pinch of snuff, sang ^* Bridgewater^* in an un« 
y high key, and then began reading in the prophecies. 

her good head full of the *^ daughter of Zion " and tho 
Israel and Judah, she was recalled to terrestrial things by 
tuns from the bam, accompanied by a general flutter and 
among the hens. 
' plodded the good soul, and opening the bam door saw 

boy perched on the top of the hay-mow, screaming and 
— ^his face the picture of dismay — while poor little Harass 
le in a more muffled manner from some unexplored low^ 
In {&ct, she was found to have slipped through a hole in 
mow into the nest of a very domestic sitting hen, whose 

at the invasion of her fEimily priyacy added no little to 
*al confusion. 

little princess, whose nicety as to her dress and sensitiye- 
> anything unpleasant about her pretty person we have 
s lifted up streaming with tears and broken ^gs, but " 
3 not seriously injured, having fallen on the very substantial 
im of hay which Dame Foulet had selected as the founda« 
ler domestic hopes. 

ill, now, did I ever 1 " said Miss Ruey, when she had ascer- 
lat no bones were broken ; '^ if that ar young on ian^t & 
' declare for*t I pity MisB Pennol-HJbft ^ois^\>\a3«s^ ^^^^b»5^ 


Ehe*8 undertook. How upon *arth tiie critter managed to ge' 
ou to the hay, I^m sure I can't tell — ^that ar little thing ne^ 
into no Buch scrapes before." 

Far from seeming impressed with any wholesome ren 
conscience, the little culprit frowned fierce defiance at MisE 
when, after having repaired the damages of little Mara's tc 
essayed the good old plan of shutting him into the doe 
fought and struggled so fiercely that Aunt Ruey's carrotj 
came off in the skirmish, and her head- gear, always rather 
assumed an aspect verging on the supernatural. 

Miss Ruey thought of Philistines and Moabites, an( 
other terrible people she had been reading about that mon 
came as near getting into a passion with the little elf as 
humoured and Christian an old body could possibly do. 
virtue is frail, and every one has some vulnerable point. 
Roman senator could not control himself when his bear 
vaded, and the like sensitiveness resides in an old worn 
and when young master irreverently clawed off her Sue 
Aunt Ruey, in her confusion of mind, administered a s( 
on either ear. 

Little Mara, who had screamed loudly through t 
scene, now conceiving that her precious new-found trea 
invaded, flew at poor Miss Ruey with both little hai 
throwing her arms round her " boy," as she constantly ca 
she drew him backward, and looked defiance at the 
enemy. Miss Ruey was dumb-struck. 

" I declare for't, I b'lieve he's bewitched her," she f 
pefied, having never seen anything like the martial e: 
which now gleamed from those soft brown eyes. " Wh; 
dear — ^putty little Mara." 

But Mara was busy wiping away the angry tears that 
the hot, glowing cheeks of the boy, and offering her little 
of a mouth to kiss him, as she stood tiptoe. 

" Poor boy — ^no kie — ^Mara*s boy," she said — " Mara Ic 
(ind then giving an angry glance at Aunt Ruey^ who sat n 


^i^tencd and oonfoaed, bIw strock oat her little pearly hand, and 
*^d, '' Go way — ^go way, naughty I " 

The child jabbered unintelligibly and earnestly to Mara, and 
^ seemed to have ihe air of being perfectly satisfied with his view 
'khe case, and both r^arded Miss Ruey with frowning looks. 

Under these peculiar circumstances, the good soul began to 
^hink her of some mode of compromise, and going to the closet 
c^ out a couple of slices of cake, which she offered to the little 
l)e]s with pacificatory words. 

Mara was appeased at once, and ran to Aunt Ruey; bat the 
yj struck the cake out of her hand, and looked at her witii steady 
efiance. The little one picked it up, and with much chippenng 
tid many little feminine manoeuvres, at last succeeded in making 
im taste it, after which appetite got the better of his valorous 
QBolotions— he ate and was comforted ; and after a little time, the 
hree wero on the best possible footing. And Miss Ruey having 
mootbed her hair, and arranged her firizette and cap, began to 
sflect upon herself as the cause of the whole disturbance. If she • 
ad not let them run while she indulged in reading and singing, 
lis would not have happened. So the toilful good soul kept them 
; her knee for the next hour or two, while they looked through 
1 the pictures in the old family Bible. 

* » • • • 

The evening of that day witnessed a crowded funeral in the 
nail rooms of Captain Eittridge. Mrs. Eittridge was in her 
bry. Solemn and lugubrious to the last degree, she supplied in 
er own proper person the want of the whole corps of mourners, 
rho generally attract sympathy on such occasions. 

But what drew artless pity &om all was the unconscious orphan, 
rho came in, led by Mrs. Fennel by the one hand, and with the 
ttle Mara by the other. 

The simple rite of baptism administered to the wondering little 
reature so strongly recalled that other scene three years before, 
hat Mrs. Fennel hid her face in her handkerchief, and Zepbaniah's 
irm hand shook a little aa he took the boy to o^^x \ivai \J^ VXn&t^v 

7i^ tiiE peahl of ORR^s tsudco. 

Tlio child roct>ire<1 the ceremony with a look of gnre Bnr^iae, 
II]) hid luind quickly and wiped the holy drops from hisbror,! 
th<'y annoyed liim ; and slirinking back, seized hold of the govnl 
Mrs. I'ciiiicl. His great beauty, and, still more, the air of hai 
(kliant tirmncBS with which he regarded the company, drev 
ryes, and many were the whispered comments. 

^'Pcnnol ^11 have his hands full with that ar chap," Baid< 
Kittridgc to Miss Roxy. 

Mrs. Kittridge darted an admonitory glance at her hnsbanlitfl 
remind him that she vras looking at him, and immediately hecd^ 
lai)scd into solemnity. 

The evening sunbeams slanted over the blackberry bushel i 
niulleu stalks of the grave-yard, when the lonely voyagff i* 
lowered to the rest from which she should not rise till the heanv 
bo no more. As the purple sea at that hour retained no trace of 
the ships that had furrowed its waves, so of this mortal traveller no 
trace remained, not even in that infant sonl that was to her n 
passionately dear. 


^Irs. ICittridge's advantages and immunities resnlting from th 
sbipwrock were not yet at an end. Not only had one of the ma 
**8olomu providences" known within the memory of the neigl 
bourbood fallen out at her door — not only had the most interestiD 
funeral that had occurred for three or four years taken place in hi 
parlour, but she was still further to be distinguished in having th 
iniiiistcr to tea after the performances were all over. To this en 
sbo had risen early, and taken down her best china tea-cups, whic 
^^|1 boen marked with her and her husband's joint initials i 
Iii'vic"' ^"^ ^^^^^ only came forth on high and solemn occasion) 
tho aZ ""^ ^^''^ probable distinction, on Saturday, immediately af tc 
rush to hl^7. ""^ ^^^ calamity, Mrs. Kittridge had found time t 
**tchen, and make up a loaf of pound-cake and som 


-Data, that the great oocaaum which she foresaw might not 
her below her repotatioii as a forehanded housewife, 
^t was a fine golden hoar when the minister and funeral train 
awaj from the grave. Unlike other funerals, there was no 
on the sympathies in favour of mourners — ^no wife, or husband, 
Zl^ ^iwrent, left a heart in that grave ; and so when the rites were 
^^ wirtr^ they turned with the more cheerfulness back into life, 

the contrast of its freshness with those shadows into which, 
the hour, they had been gazing. 

The Rev. Theophilus Sewell was one of the few ministers who 
the costume of a former generation, with something of 
__ imposing dignity with which, in earlier times, the habits of 
^^% clergy were invested. 

He was tall and majestic in stature, and carried to advantage 
the powdered wig and three-cornered hat, the broad-skirted coat, 
knee breeches, high shoes, and plated buckles of the ancieot 
eoBtmnei There was just a sufficient degree of the formality of 
olden times to give a certain quaintnessto all he said and did. Ho 
tu a man of a considerable degree of talent, force, and originality^ 
tDd in fact had been held in his day to be one of the most promising 
graduates of Harvard University. 

But, being a good man, he had proposed to himself no higher 
ambition than to succeed to the pulpit of his father in Harpswcll. 

His parish included not only a somewhat scattered seafaring 
population on the mainland, but also the care of several islands^ 
Lake many other of the New England clergy of those times, he 
united in himself numerous diiTerent offices for the benefit of 
the people whom he served. 

As there was ndther lawyer nor physician in the town, ho had 
acqmred by his reading, and still more by his experience, enough 
knowledge in both these departments to enable him to administer to 
the ordinary wants of a very healthy and peaceable people. 

It was said that most of the deeds and legal conveyances in his 
parish were in his handwriting, and in the medical lino his 
authority was only rirnllcd by that of Mies PxAX^^'^Vi'^) ^V^vbnr^ 
















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.^Pie^ ''^^'^•^^s 





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out under his fiogen. Sordy he had a right to something 

addition to his limited sahury, and this innocent, nnsuspected 

helped to make up the baknce for his many 


ffis sister was one of the best-heartei and most unsuspicious of 

dasB of female idohiters, and worshipped her brother with the 

^^M undoubting faith and devotion — ^wholly ignorant of the con- 

i^ttt amusement she gave him by a thousand little feminine pecu- 

^^tities, which struck him with a continual sense of oddity. It* 

^^ infinitdy diverting to him to see ihe solemnity of her interest 

^ his shirts and stockings, and Sunday clothes, and to listen to the 

^btile distinctions which she would draw between best and second- 

Uttt, and every day ; to receive her somewhat prolix admonition 

\m he was to demean himself in r^pect of the wearing of each 

QDe; for Miss Emily Sewell was a gentlewcHnan, and held rigidly 

to vaiioQS traditions of gentility which had been handed down in 

the Sewell family, and which afforded her brother too much quiet 

SffiiUBfflent to be disturbed. He would not have overthrovm one of 

her quiddities for the world ; it would be taking away a part of his 

cajutal in existence. 

Miss £mily was a trim, genteel little person, with dancing 
Uack ^es, and checks which had the roses of youth well dried into 
them. It was easy to see that she had been quite pretty in her 
days ; and her neat figure, her brisk little vivacious ways, her 
nnoeasing good nature and kindness of heart, still made her an 
olgect both of admiration and interest in the parish. 

She was great upon drying herbs and preparing recipes ; upon 
knitting and sewing, and cutting and contriving ; upon saving 
every possible snip and chip either of food or clotliiug ; and no lees 
libenJ was she in bestowing advice and aid in the parish, where she 
moved about with all the sense of consequence which her brother's 
position warranted. 

The fact of his bechebrhood caused his relations to the female 
part of his flock to be even more shrouded in «ayct^^<;K& ^tv\ 
mjraterythan ia commonly the case mtk t\iQ ^t^\» \MvTvQJl'Cck& 


Iiiritth; but Miis Kiiiily d,.*ligLtcil to act as interpreter. Sbc^ 
cliarinoil to Kcrve out to the willing ears of his parisli from time tl 
timoBuch sonipd of information as regarded his life,liaUt8i«* 
opinions as might gi-atify their ever new curiosity. 

Instructed by her, all the good wives knew the diffewB* 
botwoen Ills very best long silk stockings and his second beet^w 
liow carefully the first liad to be kept under lock and key,^^ 
ho could not got at them ; for he was understood, good as he til 
U) have conccaliHl in him all the thriftless and pernicioaB ibgobp 
.MiU-ratencBK of the male nature, ready at any moment to break oA 
into unheard-of improprieties. But the good man submit^ 
himself to Miss Emily's rule, and suifored himself to be led ab(tf 
by her with an air of hulf whimsical consciousness. 

^Irs. Kittridge that day liad felt the full delicacy of the cob* 
]vlimont when she ascertained by a liasty glance, before the M 
prayer, that the good man had been brought out to her funeral ii 
idl his very best things, not excepting the long silk stockings, fin 
she knew the second-best pair by means of a certain skilful dan 
which Miss Emily had once shown her, which commemorated tb 
Bix)t where a hole had been. The absence of this darn struck t 
Mrs. Ivittridge's heart at once as a delicate attention. 

^* ^litss Simpkiiis," Baid Mrs. Kittridge to )^ pastor, as the; 
were seated at the tea-table, " told mo that she wished when yo 
were going home that you would call in to see lilai-y Jane— sli 
couldn't come out to the funeral on account of a drcflle sore throai 
I was tellin' on her to gargle it with blackberry-root tea — don 
you think that is a good gargle, Mr. Sewell ? " 

"Yes, I think it a very good gargle," rei)lied the ministei 

" Ma'bh rosemary is the gargle that I always use," said MIe 
Uoxy ; " it cleans out your throat so." 

" iMarsh rosemary is a very excellent gargle," said Mr. Sewell. 

" Why, brother, don't you think that rose leaves and vitriol i 
a good gargle ? " said little Miss Emily ; " I always thought tha 
you liked rose leaves and vitriol for a gargle.'* 


So I do," said the imperturbable Mr. Sewell, drinking his tea 
^ the air of a sphinx. 

** Well, now, yoa^ll have to tell which on *em will be most likely 
^re Mary Jane," said Captain Eittridge, " or thore'U be a 
^' of caps, Pm thinkin' ; or else the poor girl will have to 
^ them all, which is generally the way." 

^ There won't any of them core Mary Jane's throat," said the 
duster, quietly. 

« Why, brother I" " Why, Mr. SeweU! " " Why, you dont !" ' 
tst in different tones from each of the women. 

** I thought you said that blackberry-root tea was good," said 
8. Eittridge. 

" I understood that you *proyed of ma'sh rosemary," said Miss 
zy, touched in her professional pride. 

^ And I am sure, brother, that I have heard you say, often and 
eo, that there wasn't a better gargle than rose leaves and vitriol," 
1 Mias Emily. 

** You are quite right, ladies, all of you. I think these are all 
d gargles— excellent ones." 

** But I thought you said that they didn't do any good ? " said 
the ladies in a breath. 

^ No, they don't — ^not the least in the world," said Mr. Sewell ; 
nt they are all excellent gargles, and as long as people must have 
gles, I think one is about as good as another." 
" Now you have got it," said Captain Eittridge. 

** Brother, you do say the strangest things," said Miss Emily. 

** Well, I must say," said Miss Roxy, " it is a new idea to me, 
g as I've been nussin', and I nuss'd through one season of scarlet 
er when sometimes there was five died in one house ; and if ma'sh 
emary didn't do good then, I should like to know what did." 

" So would a good many others," said the minister. 

" Law, now. Miss Roxy, you mus'nt mind him. Do you 
Dw that I believe he says these sort of things just to hear us 
k? Of course he wouldn't think of puttin' bia cse^«\<sql^^ 
vnsif jroias, " 


*^ But, Mui Kittridgo,** Baid I^IiaB Emily, with a 
Bunimouin^ a less con t rover tcil subject, ^^ what a beaub 
boy that was, and what a striking providenoe that brou 
into such a good family !" 

^^ Yes/* said Mrs. Kittridge ; ^^ but I*m sure I don^t s 
Mary Peunel is goin' to do with tliat boy, for she a'u^t got l 
government than a twisted tow string." 

^* Oh, the Captain, he'll lend a hand," said Miss Box; 
won*t be easy gettin' roun' him; Captain bears a pretty & 
hand when he sets out to drive." 

'' WeU," said Miss Emily, '' I do think that bringin 
children is the most awful responsibility, and I always wa 
when I hear that any one dares to undertake it." 

'^ It requires a great deal of resolution, certainly," said \ 
Kittridge ; ^^ Tm sure I used to get almost discouraged when i 
boys was young : they was a regular set of wild ass's colts,^ fl 
added, not perceiving the reflection on their paternity. 

But the countenance of Mr. Sewell was all aglow wi 
merriment, which did not break into a smile. 

'' Wal*, Miss Kittridge," said the Captain, '« strikes me tl 
you're gottin* pussonal." 

^^ No, I a'n't neither," said the literal Mrs. Kittridge, ignon 
of the cause of the amusement which she saw around her ; ^^ 1 
you wasn't no help to me, you know ; you was always off to s 
and the whole wear and tear on't came on me." 

^^ Well, well. Folly, all's well that ends well ; don't you thi 
so, Mr. Sewell ? " 

^^ I haven^t much experience in these matters," said Mr. Sow* 

*'*• No, indeed, that's what he hasn't, for he never will hav< 
child round the house that he don't turn everything topsy-tui 
lor them," said Miss Emily. 

^^ But I was going to remark," said Mr. Sewell, ** that a fric 
of mine said once, that the woman that had brought up six b 
deserved a scat among the martyra — ^and \Visx,\. VaxBjCtkfist ts^-^ qt^yd^ 


^ Wal\ PoHy, if yoa git vp there, I hope youll keep aseat for me." 

«* Cap'n Kittridge, what levity !" said his wife. 

*' I didn't begin it, anyhow,'* said the Captain. 

Miss Emily interposed, and led the oonversation back to the 

" What a pity it is," she said, "that this poor child's family 
^n never know anything abont him. There may be those who 
r^onld give all the world to know what has become of him ; and 
^lien he comes to grow np, how sad he will feel to have no fiither 
ffil motho* ! " 

^* i^ster," said Mr. Sewell, ^' yon cannot think that a child 
vongbt np by Captain Fennel and his wife wonM ever feel as 
Kithoiit &ther and mother." 

** Why, no, brother, to be sore not. There's no doabt he will 
hftve eveiytMng done for him that a child could. But then it's a 
km to Ion one's real home." 

" It may be a gracious deliverance," said Mr. Sewell — ** who 
tnowB ? We may as well take a cheerful view, and think that 
lome kind wave has drifted the child away from an unfortunate 
destiny to a family where we are quite sure he will be brought np 
indnstrionsly and soberly, and in the fear of God." 

"Well, I never thought of that," said Miss Roxy. 

Miss Emily, looking at her brother, saw that he was speaking 
with a suppressed vehemence, as if some inner fountain of recollec- 
tion at the moment were disturbed. But Miss Emily knew no 
more of the deeper parts of her brother*s nature than a little bird 
that dips its beak into the sunny waters of some spring knows of 
its depths of coldness and shadow. 

" MiFS Pennd was a-sayin' to me," said Mrs. Kittridge, " that I 
should ask you what was to be done about the bracelet they found. 
We don't know whether tis real gold and precious stones, or only 
glass and pinchbeck. Cap'n Kittridge he thinks it's real ; and if 
•tis, why then the question is^ w^iether or no to try to sell it, or to 
keep it for the hoy agin he gwwB up. It ma^ Vy.^*^ ^lA ^»X» ^^^ 
uid what bo is. ** 


** And why Bhould he want to find oat ? " said Mr. Sewel 
ahouM he not grow nfi and think himself the son of Gai 
Mrs. Poniiel ? ^Vhat better lot could a boy be bom to ? 

*^ Thai may be, brother, but it can't be kept from him. 
body knows how ho was found, and you may be sure ever 
the air will tell him, and hell grow up restless and wa 
know. I^Iiss Kittridge, have you got the bracelet handy? 

The fact was, little Miss Emily was just dying with curl 
set her dancing black eyes upon it. 

*^ Here it is,'' said Mrs. Eittridge, taking it from a dra^t 

It was a bracelet of hair, of some curious foreign workm 
A green enamelled serpent, studded thickly with emeralds an 
eyes of ruby, was curled around the clasp. A crystal plate o 
a wide flat braid of hair, on which the letters ^^ D. M." were cui 
embroidered in a cipher of seed pearls. The whole was in 
and workmanship quite different from any jewellery which 
narily meets one's eye. 

But what was remarkable was the expression in Mr. Se^ 
face when this bracelet was put into his hand. Miss Emily 
risen from table and brought it to him, leaning over him as 
did so, and he turned his head a little to hold it in the light i 
the window, so that only she remarked the sudden expressio 
blank surprise and startled recognition which fell upon it. 
seemed like a man who chokes down an exclamation ; and ri 
hastily, he took the bracelet to the window, and, standing witi 
back to the company, seemed to examine it with -the minutest 
tcrcst. After a few moments he turned and said, in a very c 
posed tone, as if the subject were of no particular interest — 

'^ It is a singular article, so far as workmanship is concer 
The value of the gems in themselves is not great enough to n 
it worth while to sell it. It will bo worth more as a curie 
than anything else. It will doubtless be an interesting roK 
keep for the boy when he grows up." 

" Well, Mr. Sewell, you keep it," said I^Irs. Kittridge ; « 
Venndla told me to give it into yowr cat^."'^ 


** I shall oommit it to Emily here ; women have a native eym- 
^^thy with anything in the jewellery line. She'll be sure to lay it 
^J 80 securely that she won't even know where it is herself .*• 

" Come, Emily," said Mr. Sewell, " your hens will all go to roost 
^ the wrong perch if you are not at home to see to them ; so, if 
*he Captain will set us across to Harpswell, I think we may as well 
>e going." 

" "VVhy, what's your hurry ?" said Mrs. Kittridge. 

*' Well," said Mr. Sewell, " firstly, there's the hens ; secondly, 
he pigs ; and lastly, the cow. Besides, I shouldn't wonder if some 
f £nuly's admirers should call on her this evening'-nevcr any 
aying when Captain Broad may come in." 

"Now, brother, you are too bad," said Miss Emily, as she 
bustled about her bonnet and shawl. '* Now, that's all made up out 
>f the whole cloth. Captain Broad called last week a'Monday, to 
»lk to you about the pews, and hardly spoke a word to me. You 
»iightn't to say such things, 'cause it raises reports." 

"Ah, well, then, I won't again," said her brother. " I believe, 
fter all, it was Captain Badger that called twice." 

** Brother!" 

*' And left you a basket of apples the second time." 

*' Brother, you know he only called to get some of my hore- 
loand for Mehitable's cough." 

** Oh, yes, I remember." 

'• If you don't take care," said Miss Emily, *' I'll tell whore you 

**Come, Miss Emily, you must not mind him," said Miss 
Eloxy ; " we all know his ways." 

And now took place the grand leave-taking, which consisted 
5rst of the three women's standing in a knot and all talking at 
mce, as if their very lives depended upon saying everything they 
x)uld possibly think of before they separated, while Mr. Sewell 
md Captain lUttridge etood patiently waitimg m^i\\ >i?si"ft ti^\^'^\ 
Ir which the male sex commonly aasumc oiiEvicVv oc^moiv^\ «5A 


wheiif after two or three *^ Come, Emfly's,** the gi 
onlj to form again on the door-step, where they wei 
than erer, and a third occasion of the same sort too 
bottom of the steps, Mr. Sewell was at last obliged 1 
to drag his sister away in the middle of a sentence. 

Miss Emily watched her brother shrewdly all tl 
bat all traces of any uncommon feeling had passed a^ 
with the restlessness of female curiosity, she felt qi 
she had laid hold of the end of some skein of myst 
only find skill enough to unwind it. 

She took up the bracelet, and held it in the ft 
light, and broke into various observations with regs 
gularity of the workmanship. 

Her brother seemed entirely absorbed in talking 
Kittridge about the brig Anna Maria, which was 
launched fiK>m Fennel's wharf next Wednesday. 

But she, therefore, internally resolved to lie in 
secret in that confidential hour which usually pi 
to bed; 

Therefore, as soon as she had arrived at their q 
she put in operation the most seducing little fire that 
and snapped in a chimney, well knowing that noth 
calculated to throw light into any hidden or conceah 
the soul than that enliveniDg blaze which danced so i 
well-polished andirons, and made the old chintz sofa 
worn furniture so rich in remembrances of family coi 

She then proceeded to divest her brother of his 
dress-coat, and to induct him into the flowing ea 
gown, crowning liis well-shaven head with a black ca 
his slippers before the corner of a sofa nearest the 
served him with satisfaction sliding into his seat, 
trotted to a closet with a glass-door in the corner of 
took down an old, quaintly-shaped silver cup, which 
heir-loom in their family, and was the only piece ( 
%h&rr2(Kt^m domestic establishment qo\x\^ \»o^\>^ 

rt^JilNlNE OUBIOfilTT. 89 

Own cellar she tripped, her little heels tapping lightly on each 
^^9dr, and the hum of a song coming back after her as she 
Ought the cider-barrd. Up again she came, and set the silver cup, 
'^Ith its dear amber contents, down by the fire, and then busied 
^rself in making just the crispest, nicest square of toast to 
'e eaten with it — ^for Miss Emily had conceived the idea that some 
title ceremony of this sort was absolutely necessary to do away all 
OBsible ill effects from a day's labour, and secure an uninterrupted 
light's repose. 

Having done all this, she took her knitting work, and stationed 
lerself just opposite to her brother. 

It was fortunate for IMiss Emily that the era of daily journals 
ikad not yet arisen upon the earth, because if it had, after all her 
caie and pains, her brother would probably have taken up the 
evening paper, and holding it between his face and her, have read 
an hour or so in silence ; but Mr. SewoU had not this resort. He 
knew perfectly well that he had excited his sister's curiosity on a 
subject where he could not gratify it, and therefore he took refuge 
in a kind of mild, abstracted air of quietude which bid defiance to 
lU her littb suggestions. 

After in vain trying every indirect form, Miss Emily approached 
^he subject more pointedly. 

" I thought that you looked very much interested in that poor 
woman to-day." 

«* She had an interesting face," said her brother, drily. 

** Was it like anybody that you ever saw ? " said JMiss Emily. 

Her brother did not seem to hear her, but, taking the tongs, 
picked up the two ends of a stick that had just fallen apart, and 
arranged them so as to make a new blaze. 

Miss Emily was obliged to repeat her question, whereat he 
started as one awakened out of a dream, and said^* 

" AVhy, yes, he didn't know but she did ; there were a good many 
women with black eyes and black hair— I^Irs. Kittridge, for instance." 

«* Why, I don't think that she looked like Mrs, Kittridge ixv tlva 
?0asi, " BaidMisa Emily, warmly. 


" Oil, well ! I didn't say Bhe did," said her brother, lool 
drowsily at his watch ; " why, Emily, it's getting ratlierlate.' 

•* What made you look so when I showed y©u that brace 
said lilies Emily, determined now to push the war to the be 
tlio enemy's country. 

*^ Look how ? " said her brother, leisurely moistening a 
toast in his cider. 

" Why, I never saw anybody look more wild and ast( 
than you did for a minute or two." 

" I did, did I? " said her brother, in the same indifferer 
" ^ly dear child, what an active imagination you have. I 
ever look through a prism, EmUy ? " 

" WTiy, no, Theophilus ; what do yon mean ? ** 

" Well, if you should, you would see everybody and evi 
with a nice little bordering of rainbow around them ; : 
rainbow isn't on the things, but in the prism." 

" Well, what's that to the purpose ? '' said Miss Eniil; 

" Why, just this : you women are so nervous and excita 
you are very apt to see your friends and the world in gene 
some colouring just as unreal. I am sorry for you, chil 
really I can't help you to get up a romance out of this 
Well, good-night, Emily, take good care of yourself, and | 
and Mr. Sewell went to his room, leaving poor Miijs Emil 
persuaded out of the sight of her own eyes. 


The little boy who had been added to the family of Zc 
Fennel and his wife soon became a source of grave solic 
that mild and long-suffering woman. For, as the reader m 
seen, ho was a resolute, self-willed little elf, and whatever hi 
life may have been, it was quite evident that these traits li 
developed without any restraint. 

^^i*s. Peonel, whose whole domestic experience had consisted in 
"^^g one very sensitiye and tdmid daughter, who needed for her 
^opment only an extreme of tenderness, and whose conscien- 
^ess was a law onto herself, stood utterly confounded before 
^ turbulent little spirit to which her loving-kindness had opened 
^eady an asylum, and she soon discovered that it is one thing to 
^9 a human being to bring up, and another to know what to do 
lih it after it is taken. 

The child had the instinctive awe of Zephaniah which his 
nly nature and habits of command were fitted to inspire, so that 
ming and evening, when he was at home, he was demure enough ; 
: while the good man was away all day, and sometimes on fishing 
ursions which often lasted a week, there was a chronic state of 
Destic warfare — a succession of skirmishes, pitched battles, long 
aties, with divers articles of capitulation, ending, as treaties 
i apt to do, in open rupture on the first convenient opportunity. 
Mtb. Pennel sometimes reflected with herself mournfully, and 
h many self-disparaging sighs, what was the reason that young 
fter somehow contrived to k^ep her far more in awe of him than 
nras of her. Was she not evidently, as yet at least, bigger and 
»nger than he, able to hold his rebellious little hands, to lift and 
ry him, and to shot him up, if so she willed, in a dark closet, 
. even to administer to him that discipline of the birch which 
3. Eittridge often and forcibly recommended as the great secret 
her family prosperity? Was it not her duty, as everybody told 
, to break his will while he was young ? — a duty which hung 
) a millstone round the peaceable creature^s neck, and weighed 
down with a distressing sense of responsibility. 
Now, jMts. Pennel was one of the people to whom self-sacrifice 
onstitutionally so much a nature, that self- denial for her must 
'e consisted in standing up for her own rights, or having her 
1 way when it crossed the will and pleasure of any one around 
. All she wanted of a child, or in fact of any human creature, 
5 something to lore and serve. We leave \\. ^tv\!vc^'^ X.'^ '<^^^- 
fWB to reconcilo mch facts with the tlieory oi VoV^ ^•js^'wc^ \ 











!^"'^'^t oiZ'. ^'^^'VZife^" *^ * 





n. P, 




'^'J^d J * '* '^ot i^[ "^^ for J ^^^ ther. 

^'^ip.'^" ""' 

,r t 



*A'H J '^^be fr^^Z^^g ib,T..*" '^A'cA":^ '^•'iio 

«/>8do» """ tiev 7T^ ot , "/"«««re sob/ "«» toZf '"''»'• 

^yes of 

a Hen 

^oubiet*^«^ wio 







^^S within a mile of one, is incredible; but until this new 
^/^^on to her famUy, Mrs. Fennel had always been able to com- 
J^ Wdf with the idea that the child under her particular train- 
l5^ ^ as well-behaved as any of those of her more demonstrative 
[j^Dd. Bat now, all this consolation had been put to flight ; she 
^W not meet Mrs. Kittridge without most humiliating recollectious. 
On Sundays, when those sharp black eyes gleamed upon her 
**^^^gh the rails of the neighbouring pew, her very soul shrank 
'^thin her, as she recollected all the compromises and defeats of the 
^Qek before. It seemed to her that Mrs. Kittridge saw it all — 
miw she had ingloriously bought peace with gingerbread, instead 
Of maintaining it by rightful authority — liow young master had 
ki up till nine o^clock on divers occasions, and even kept little 
Hara up for his lordly pleasure. 

How she trembled at every movement of the child in the pew, 
dreading some patent and open impropriety which should bring 
scandal on her government I This was the more to be feared, as 
tfae first effort to initiate the youthful neophyte in the decorums 
if the sanctuary had proved anything but a success — ^insomuch 
hat Zephaniah Fennel had been obliged to carry him out &om 
he church; therefore, poor Mrs. Fennel was thankful every 
Sunday when she got her little charge home without any distinct 
candal and breach of the peace. 

But, after all, he was sudi a handsome and engaging little 
fretch, attracting all eyes wh Tever ho went, and so full of saucy 
Irolleries, that it seemed to Mrs. Fennel that everything and 
nrerybody conspired to help her spoil him. 

There are two classes of human beings in this world ; one class 
eem, made to give love, and the other to take it. Now Mrs. 
?ennel and Mara belonged to the first class, and little Master 
Vloaes to the latter. 

It was, perhaps, of service to the little girl to give to her 
lelicate, shrinking, highly nervous organisation the constant sup- 
sort of a companion so courageous, so richly blooded^ aud biff's 
ntaUaed aa tho boy seemed to be. There 'waa ^fetT^Njt^'S^^ia^ 


rii'liii M ill hi^ nir that gave one a sens? of ii'armth in loold 
hiin, an- 1 mtli! Iii.s Oriental naiuv: blviu in good keeping. 
{kvini>l an"i'xntii« that lui^ht have wakoil up under fervid Egy^ 
8Ui)!«. ami Ikvii found cnidled among the lotus blossoms of old . 
ami th' fair p^ldon-luiirxl girl Bcemcd to bo gladdened b; 
ciMnpanionship, oa if he Rupplicd an element of vital warmth to 
licin^. Slie soi'inod to incline toward him oa naturally as a canib 
ihh-hUo to a ma^'net. 

It Wiia inarvi-UouA to sec the quickness of ear and fkcQityi^ 
which tho child pickinl up Englisli. Evidently, he had been so* 
what aocustoinotl to tho sound of it before, for there dropped obX 
his vocabulary, after he began to speak, phrases which would 
to iH'token a lonfft-r familiarity with its idioms than could becqi 
accouiitoil for by his present experience. Though the Ed|^" 
I'vidently was not his native language, there had yet appaienljf I 
l»«'eu ponio effort to teach it to him — although the terror andc* I 
fusion of the shipwreck seemed at first to have washed every forntt I 
impression from his mind. 1 

15ut whenever any attempt was made to draw him to speak ot I 
the ])ast, of his mother, or of where he came from, his brow lowcid 1 
gloomily, and he assumed tliat kind of moody, impenetrable gravitj, ' 
whieli cliildren at times will so strangely put on, and which bafflfi 
all attempts to look within them. Zephaniah Pennel used to call 
it iHittiug up his dtad-lights. 

Perhaiis it was tho dreadful association of agony and terroi 
conn(H:'teJ with tho shipwreck, that thus confused and darkened 
the niiiror of his mind the moment it was turned backward; hut 
t was thought wisest by his new friends to avoid that class of sub- 
lets altogether — indeed, it was their wish tliat ho might forget tho 
ist entirely, and reniembjr them as his only parents. 

]Miss Roxy and I^Iiss Ilucy came duly as appointed to initiate 
i young pilgrim into the habiliments of a Yankee boy, endeavour- 

', at the same time, to drop into his mind such seeds of mora 

hnn. as might make tho internal economy in timo corresponc 

he exterior. 


ii Miss Boxy declared that " of all the children that ever 
8, he beat all for finding out new mischief— the moment 
make him understand he mustn^t do one thing, he was 
it another." 

le of his exploits, however, had very nearly been the meant 
ang short the materials of our story in the outset. 
was a warm, sunny afternoon, and the three women, 
busy together with their stitching, had tied a sun-bonnet 
le Mara, and turned the two loose upon the beach to pick 

L was serene, and quiet, and retired, and no possible danger 
be apprehended. So up and down they trotted, till the 
of adventure which ever burned in the breast of little 
I caught sight of a small canoe which had been moored 
under the shadow of a cedar-covered rock, 
brthwith he persuaded his little neighbour to go into it, 
far a while they made themselves very gay, rocking it from 
io side. 

le tide was going out, and each retreating wave washed the 
ap and down, till it came into the boy^s curly head how 
iul it would be to sail out as he had seen men do — and 
\k much puffing and earnest tugging of his little brown hands, 
»at at last was loosed from her moorings and pushed out on 
de, when both children laughed gaily to find themselves 
ing and balancing on the amber surface, and watching the 
Eind sparkles of sunshine and the white pebbles below. Little 
was glorious — ^his adventures had begun — and with a fairy 
ss in his boat, he was going to stretch away to some of tho 
8 of dream-land. He persuaded Mara to give him her pink 
>nnet, which he placed for a pennon on a stick at the end of 
»at, while he made a vehement dashing with another, first on 
ie of the boat and then on the other — spattering the water 
mond showers, to the infinite amusement of the httle maiden, 
eanwhile, the tide waves danced themi out ^nd «^)\!i\ Q»\s^i^%s.\^ 
1 they went farther and further from 6h,oie^^\y^ mort^ ^<mwiSw 

''"'t the I ^"^ '***»! o* 

S-i t> S;^ C-,^ f e , ,^ ^^ , ''"• '•'^ '^ 


. ^e aea-gdik ; and little Moaes now thinks, with gloriooB Bcom, 
^^^ and yoor pres-boaid, as of grim ahadows of roBtiaint and 
^^^^age that shall never darken his free life more. 

fioth MiflB Boxy and Mrs. Pennd were, however, startled into 
^^iiozysm of akurm when poor MisB Ruey came screamiDg, as she 
^Vied the doca-, 

w **As sore as yonV alive, them chil'en are off in the boat — 
^^yV oat to sea, sore as Tm alive ! What shall we do? The 
^^01 upset, and the sharks'U get 'em." 

Miss Boxy ran to the window, and saw dancing and curtseying 
^ the blue waves the little pinnace, with its fanciful pink pennon 
Inttered gaOy by the indiscreet and flattering wind. 

Poor Mrs. Fennel ran to the shore, and stretched her arms 
^rildly, as if she would have followed them across the treacherous 
bhia floor that heaved and sparkled between them. 

*'Ohy Mara, Mara! oh, my poor little girl! oh, poor 

*' Well, if ever I see sach a young un as that,** soliloquised Miss 
iozyfrcHn the chamber window; ^' there they be, dancin' and 
jiggiting about — ^ey*ll have the boat upset in a minit, and the 
barks are waitin^ for 'em, no doubt. / believe that are young un's 
lelped by the Evil One — not a boat round, else Td push off after 
sm. Well, I don't see but we must trust in the Lord — there don't 
eem to be much else to trust to," said the spinster, as she drew her 
lead in grimly. 

To say the truth, there was some reason for the terror of these 
nost fearful suggestions; for not far from the place where the 
children embarked was Zephaniah's fish-drying ground, and mul- 
titudes of sharks came up with every rising tide, allured by the offal 
bhat was here constantly thrown into the Bd&. Two of these 
prowlers, outward-bound from their quest, i^F^^en now assidu- 
ously attending the little boat, and the cliitdfen derived no small 
imusement from watching their motions in the pellucid water — the 
tx)y occasionally almost upsetting the boat by valorous pbinges at 
\,hem witit Jug $tick. It waa thQ moat QdvA&T^Uxi^ ^xv\ ^vy^vsiX 





'^'tie/.., ?■■"*« *i 

e.w. f- -Aici .IV". 'Ae y^^^^^^k to ^^^ ^1, , 

/J^° oWT *We 


08 to 


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"'ore' i.T"'^ ^biob .LI * « fea. 







^^' «":^'?^r.'«^»^Tir«i^..*i!; > -^ 





^fi: «Ae 





9 "but he drew back, and, looking at lier with a world of defiance 
great eyes, jumped magnanimously ux)on the beach. 
The spirit of Sir Francis Drake and of Christopher Columbus 

^* BwelliDg in his little body, and was he to be brought under by 

-yisaged woman with a press-board ? 
^^ ^ In fact, nothing is more ludicrous about the escax>ailcs of 
5l|**^^Upen than the utter insensibihty they feel to the dangers they 
"^^"Ve run,' and the light esteem in which they hold the deep tragedy 
'^^ create. 

-^ That night, when Zephaniah, in his evening exercise, poured 

^^"Hh most fervent thanksgivings for the deliverance, while Mrs. 

"^^nnel was sobbing in her handkerchief, liliss Roxy was much 

^^ttdalised by seeing the young cause of all the disturbance sitting 

^JpOtt his heels, regarding the emotion of the kneeling party with 

liB vide bright eyes, without a wink of compunction. 

"Well, for her part," she said, " she hoped Cap*n Pennel would 
he blessed in takin' that ar boy ; but she was sure she didn't see 
Inach that looked Hke it now." 

• ««»«»• 

The Rev. Mr. Sewell fished no more that day, for the draught 
from fairy-land with which he had filled his boat brought up many 
thoughts into his mind, wliich he pondered anxiously. 

"Strange ways of God," he thought, ** that should send to my 
door this child, and should wash upon the beach the only sign by 
which he could be identified. To what end or purpose? Ilatli 
the Lord a will in this matter, and what is it ? " 

So he thought as he slowly rowed homeward, and so did his 
thoughts work upon him that half way across the bay to Harpswell 
he slackened his oar without knowing it, and the boat lay drifting 
on the purple and gold-tinted mirror, like a speck between two 
eternities. Under such circumstances, even heads that have worn 
the clerical wig for years at times get a little dizzy and dreamy. 
Perhaps it was the impression made upon him by the sudden appa- 
rition of those ^reat dark eyes and sable cuxte, tlaa^. Via S& t^k^ 
tbinkiDg of th9 hoy tha,t be had found ftoatmg V\i«u\. ^^ctwokssk 

"^ quite ^^^ -""Tetf ^ 

^^^''d Aon,e , *^t eni? °-^*'"Oir on *"»ei( 

MB. 8EW£LL'S secret. 101 

One of his fayonrite mAxiros was, that the only way to keep i\ 
^^^t was never to let any one suspect that yon have one. And 
^e had one now, he had, as you hare seen, done his best to 
^%e and pufc to sleep the feminine curiosity of his sister. 

Be rather wanted to tell her, too, for he was a good-natured 
^^er, and would have liked to have given her the amount of 
^*»8ure the confidence would have produced ; but then he reflected 
^th dismay on the number of women in his parish with whom Miss 
5rmily was on tea-drinking terms — ^he thought of the wondrous 
^?ent powers of that beverage in whose amber depths so mauy 
^lutions, yea, and solemn vows, of utter silence have been 
W>lved like Cleopatra^s pearls. 

He knew that an infusion of his secret would steam up from 
vrsry cup of tea Emily should drink for six months to come, till 
gradually every particle should be dissolved and float in the air of 
Dommon fame. No ; it would not do. 

Yon would have thought, however, that something was the 
natter with Mr. Sewell, had you seen him after he retired on the 
ight after he had so very indifferently dismissed the subject of 
[is8 Emily's inquiries. For instead of retiring quietly to bed, as 
ad been his habit for years at that hour, he locked his door, and 
len unlocked a desk of private papers, and emptied certain pigeon- 
oles of their contents, and for an hour or two sat unfolding and 
loking over old letters and papers — ^and when all this was done, 
e pushed them from him and sat for a long time buried in thoughts 
rhich went down very, very deep into that dark and mosey well 
f which we have spoken. 

Then he took a pen and Avrote a letter, and addressed it to a 
iirection for which he had searched through many piles of paper, 
»nd having done so, seemed to ponder, uncertainly, whether 
o send it or not. The Harpswell post-oflBce was kept in Mr. 
Ulas Perrit's store, and the letters were every one of them care- 
ully and curiously investigated by all the gossips of the village, and 
us this was addressed to St. Augustine in Florida^ h^ fotosa^K t\iAi^ 
leiore Sunday the nerr^ would be in evety mo\)i\Xv \xi \3aa^^\Sa. 

t:if. pf.arl of orr*s island. 

tliat the iniuUtor ha I written to so and so in Florida.. 
i\o you s*poi«c it's about ? " 

** Xo, no," he 8iii»l to himself, ** that will never 
all oviiits there is uo hurry," and he put back the papc 
|)ut tlio loiter ii\'ith them, and locking his desk, looked a 
and found it to bo two o*clock, and so he went to bed to 
matter over. 

Xow, thero may be some reader so simple as to fed a i 
^lisd Kmily's curiosity. But, my friend, restrain it, 
Sewell will certainly, as we foresee, become less rather tk 
communicative on this subject, as he thinks upon it. 

Xeverthele.=«, whatever it be that he knows or suspec\ 
something which Iciuls him to contemplate with more thaQ 
interest tliis little mortal waif that has so strangely comd& 
in his parish. 

He mentally resolved to study the child as minutely as pon 
without betraying that ho has any particular reason for ^ 
interested in him. 

Therefore, in the latter part of this mild November afternoi 
which he has devoted to pastoral visiting, about two months ai 
the funeral, ho steps into his little sail-boat, and stretches ai 
for the shores of Orr's Island. Ho knows the sun will be d( 
before he reaches there ; but he sees in the opposite horizon, the s] 
tral, shadowy moon, only waiting for daylight to be gone to c 
out, calm and radiant, like a saintly friend neglected in the fim 
prosperity, who waits patiently to enliven our hours of darkn« 

As his boat-keel grazed the sands on the other side, a slioi 
laughter came upon his car from behind a cedar-covered i 
and soon emerged Capt. Kittridgc, as long, and lean, and bro\^ 
the Ancient ^lariner, carrying little Mara on one shoulder, it 
Sally and little Moses Fennel trotted on before. 

It was difficult to say who in this whole group was in 
highest spirits. The fact was that Mrs. Kittridge had gone 
tea-drinking over at Maquoit, and left the captain as housckc 
and g'lioral overseer ; and httle Llara^ and "Mwwift, wm3l §«i\^ 


ti gloriously keeping holiday with him down by the boat-cove, 
^^^, to say the truth, few shavings were made, except those 
ssfiary to adorn the children's heads with flowing suits of curls 
^ snost extraordinary effect. The aprons of all of them were 
' of these most unsubstantial specimens of woody treasure, 
>"Oli hung out in long festoons, looking of a yellow transparency 
"tile evening light. But the delight of the children in their 
tuisitions was only equalled by that of grown-up people in 
^Sessions equally fanciful in value. 

The mirth of the little party, however, came to a sudden pause 
' '^^ey met the minister. Mara clung tight to the captain's neck, 
^ looked out slily under her curls. But the little Moses made a 
3^ forward, and fixed his bold, dark, inquisitive eyes upon him. 
^ feet was, that the minister had been impressed upon the boy, in 
^ few visits to the " meeting," as such a grand and mysterious 
^^•800 for good behaviour, that he seemed resolved to embrace the 
^ opportunity to study him nigh at hand. 

"Well, my little man," said Mr. Sewell, with an affability 
Wdch he could readily assume with children, ** you seem to like to 
Oak at me." 

''I do like to look at you," said the boy gravely, continuing to 
1 his great black eyes upon him. 

"I see you do, my little fellow." 

** Are you the Lord? " said the child, solemnly. 

** Am I what?" 

*' The Lord," said the boy. 

"No, indeed, my lad," said Mr. Sewell, smiling. "Why, 
lat put that into your little head?" 

" I thought you were," said the boy, still continuing to study 
3 pastor vnih attention. " Miss Roxy said so." 

" It's curious what notions chil'en will get in their heads," said 
iptain Eittridge. " They put this and that together, and think 
over, and come out with such queer things." 

"But," said the minister, "I have brought aot!iethin%i!C»"^QOw 
/ " sajring which he drew from Wb pock(2t tta^^ ^VO(^a \snj^V 

nv rEAU. or okk*8 muan^ 

dieekcd app^Bi* ^^^ gare one to eadi cbild; and tknti 
hand of the little Moaes in hia own« he walked with bin 
the hcnse-door. 

Mrs. Pennel was sitting in her dean kitchen, boslyi 
at the little whed, and rose fioshed with pteaaore at tk 
that was done her. 

*' Praj, walk in, ^Ir. SeweU,*" she said, ning, and ksdii 
way toward the penetialia of the best room. 

^ Xow, Mrs. Pennel, I am oome here for a good 8it-do« 
yoor kitchen-fiie this erening," said Mr. SeweH ^'Eoub 
gone oat to sit with dd Mn. Broad, who is laid op ^^ 
rl eimatinn, and so I am tamed loose to pick ap my fifing o>^ 
parish, and yon most give me a seat for a while in joarb^ 
comer. Best rooms are always cotd." 

••The minister's right," said Captain Kittridge. "^ 
rooms aVt moch set in, folks nerer fed so kind o^ natural i&^ 
So you jiat let me put on a good back-log and f<Nre-8tick, i 
build up a fire to tell stories by this evening. My wife^s gone ' 
to tea, too," he said, with an elastic skip. 

And in a few moments the Captain had produced in the £F 
cavernous chinmey a foundation for a fire that promised bres 
solidity, and continuance. A great back-log, eml»oidered 
and there with tufts of green or greyish moss, was first flung 
the capadous arms of the fire-pfaice, and a smaller log pi 
above it. 

" Now, all you young uns go out and bring in chips," 8ai< 
Captain. ^ There^s capital ones out to the wood- pile." 

Mr. Sewell was pleased to see the flash that came firom the 
of little Moses at this order — ^how energetically he ran befor 
others, and came with glowing cheeks and distended arms, thro 
down great white chips with their green mossy bark, 6catt< 
tufts on the floor. 

" Good," said he softly to himself^ as he leaned on the top c 
gold-]ieaded cane ; " there^s energy, ambition, muscle ; " an 
nodded his head once or twice to aome VxiV^xikal ^d^cansscu 


here ! *" and ike CmfUbi, nmog out of m perlect wLhtwind 

« and ptoe kindKngi with which in his zeal he had bestrofim 

de, black stone hewth, and pointing to the tongoes of flarat 

rere leaping and blazing op throagh the c re y i ce s of the drj 

vrood which he had interminglfd {dentifullj with the more 

antial f ael, — ** there, Mis Pennd, aVt I a master hand at a 

! But I'm xeallj warrj Tre dirtied joor floor,'^ he said, as he 

Bhed down his pantaloons, which were oorered with bits of 

tdj moss, and looked on the sorroanding desolatioiis; " gire me 

xoom, I can sweep i^ now as well as anj woman.^ 

** Oh, nerer mind,** said Mis. Pennd, laoghing, *' III sweep np.^ 

** Well, now, MisB Pennd, yoa*ie ooe of the women that don*t 

t^pat oat easy ; aVt je? " said the Captain, still contemplatiDg 

Ml fire with a prood and watdifal eye. 

"Law me!" he exclaimed, glancing throogh the window, 

"t&oe's the Cap*n a*comin\ Tm jist goin* to gire a look at what 

&e% fafOQght io. Come, chil^en,'' and the Captain disappeared with 

afl three of the children at his heels, to go down to examine the 

treasm-es of the fishing-smack. 

Mr. SeweQ seated himself cosfly in the chimney-comer, and 
sank into a state of half-dreamy rererie ; his eyes fixed on the 
fiurest sight one can see of a frosty antumn twilight — a crack- 
ling wood-fire. 

MiB. Pennd moved soft-footed to and fro, arraying her tea- 
taUe in her own finest and pore damask, and bringing from hidden 
stores her best china and newest sQTer, her choicest sweetmeats and 
cake— whatever was fairest and nicest in her house — to hononr 
her unexpected gaest. 

I^ir. SeweQ^s eyes followed her occasionally about the room, 
with an expression of pleased and curious satisfaction. He was 
taking it all in as an artistic picture — ^that simple, kindly hearth, 
with its mossy logs, yet steaming with the moisture of the wild 
woods — the table so neat, so cheery, with its many little delicacies, 
and refinements of appointment, and its ample varieties to tempt 
ibe Mppetite^-aad then the Captain condxig Vn^ "^^ ^^ ^.^ 






*< A 





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^ X>o tell me vhat mermen are? " said Moeee. 
^ Wal\" said the Captain, sinking his voice confidentially, and 
bing his chair a little around, '^ mermen and maids is a kind o' 
3le that haye their world jist like our^n, only iVs down in the 
^m. of the sea, 'cause the bottom of the sea has its mountains 
^ its valleys, and its trees and its bushes, and it stands to reason 
'^ should be people there too." 

Moses opened his broad black eyes wider than usual, and 
*«ed absorbed attention. 

** Tell 'em about how you saw 'em," said Sally. 
" Wal*, yes," said Captain Kittridge, *' once when I was to tho 
^fcunas — ^it was one Sunday morning in June, the first Sunday 
^ "the month — we cast anchor pretty uigh a reef of coral, and I 
'^jiat a-sittin' down to read my Bible, when up comes a merman 
*^attiie side of the ship, all dressed as fine as any old beau that 
*^ ye see, with cocked hat and silk stockings, and shoe-buckles, 
^ his clothes was sea-green, and his shoe-buckles shone like 

" Do you suppose they were diamonds, really ? " said Sally. 

" WaV, child, I didn't ask him, but I shouldn't be surprised, 
3m all I know of their ways, if they was," said the Captain, who 
d now got so wholly into the spirit of his fiction that he no 
iger felt enibarrassed by the minister's presence, nor saw the 
>k of amusement with which he was listening to him in his 
imney corner. *' But, as I was sayin', he came up to me, and 
de the politest bow that ever ye see, and says he, *Cap'n 
ttridge, I presume,' and says I, * Yes, sir.' * I'm sorry to 
errupt your reading,' says he ; and says I, ' Oh, no matter, sir.' 
ut,' says he, * if you would only be so good as to move your 
3hor. You've cast anchor right before my front door, and my 
fe and family can't get out to go to meetin'.' " 

** AVhy, do they go to meeting in the bottom of the sea ? " said 


" Law, bless you sonny, yes. Why, Sunday morning, when the 
k was a]} BtU], I med to hear the bass-viol a-souxdvcJ to^x^^ssAsx 



the waters, jist as plain aa could be — and pabns im 
Vre retaoQ to think thereof aa manj hopelnlly poos m 
there be fdka,*' said the Captain. 

**Bat,"ttid Moses, ''yoa said the anchor was befiffe 
door, so the £uni]j coold'nt get oat — ^how did the me 

'' Oh ! he got out of the scuttle on the rooi;'' said iheC 

^^ And did yon move your anchor ? ^ said Moses. 

^' ^\'hy, chUd, yes, to be sore I did ; he was such a gentlei 
wanted to oblige him — ^it shows yoo how important it is & 
to be polite," said the Captain, by way of giring a moral to. 
his narrmtiTe. 

Mr. SeweDy during the progress of this story, examined 
Captain with eyes of amused curiosity. His countenance was 
fixed and steady, and Ids whole manner of reciting as jD&tUS'^ 
&ict and collected, as if he were relating some of the every-d^ 
affairs of his boat-building. 

'* Wal', Sally," said the Captain, rising, after his yam had pw 
ceeded for an indefinite length in this manner, ** you and I m^ 
be goin\ I promised your ma you shouldn^t be up late, andvt 
have a long walk home— besides, it's time these little folks was ii 

The children all clung round the Captain, and could haid^b 
persuaded to let hun go. 

When he was gone, Mrs. Fennel took Uie little ones to the 
nest in an adjoining room. 

Mr. Sewell approached his chair to that of Captain PeniM 
»ind began talking to him in a tone of voice so low, that we ha' 
*Jover been able to make out exactly what he was saying. 

Whatever it might be. however, it seemed to give rise to i 
^*jou8 consultation. 

*' ^ did not think it advisable to tell a7it/ one this but youre( 
' J'^in Ponnol. It is for you to decide, in view of the probabi 
^ ^ 'mve told you, what you wiU do." 



WeUf" said Zephaniaih, *' since 700 leaye it to me, Isaj, let us 
him. It certainly seems a marked providence that he has 
' thrown upon us as he has, and the L(»d seemed to prepare a 
for him in onr hearts. I am well able to afford it, and Miss 
nel, she agrees to it, and on the wLc^ i don't think we*d best 
)ack on our steps ; besides, oar little Mara has thrived since he 
le under oar roof. He is, to be sore, kind o' masterfol, and I 
1 have to take him oS Miss Fennel's hands before long, and pat 
into the sloop. Bat, after all, there seems to be the makin* of 
ttQ in him, and when we are called awaj, why he'll be as a 
kher to poor little Mara. Yes, I think it's best as 'tis.** 
The minister, as he flitted across the bay by moonlight, felt 
ev od of a harden. His secret was locked np as safe in the breast 
Zephaniah Fennel as it conld be in his own. 


PHANiAH Fennel was what might be called a Hebrew of the 

^ew England, in her earlier days, founding her institutions on 
Hebrew Scriptures, bred better Jews than Moses could, because 
read Moses with the amendments of Christ, 
rhe state of society in some of the districts of Maine, in these 
i, much resembled in its spirit that which Moses laboured 
iroduce in ruder ages. It was entirely democratic, simple, 
'e, hearty, and sincere — solemn and religious in its daily tone, 
yet, as to all material good, full of wholesome thrift and 
perity. Ferhaps, taking the average mass of the people, a more 
bhful and desirable state of society never existed. Its better 
[mens had a simple Doric grandeur unsurpassed in any age. 
Dhe bringing up a child in this state of society was a far more 
le enterprise than in our modern times, when the facti- 
\ wants and aspirations are so much more developed* 
^^pbamab PenoeJ was as high as anybody m \!)cy^ \d;sx<^« W^ 













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^Vo. '"oue 

^ i'^^^ young 


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rears haviog glided by since the commencement of our 
ind in the brown house of Zephanmh Fennel, a tall, well- 
some boy of ten years, who knows no fear of wind or sea— 
;t you over from Orr's Island to Harpswell, either in sail 
it, he thinks, as well as any man living — ^who knows every 
I schooner '^ Brilliant," and fancies he could command it 
" father" himself— and is supporting himself this spring, 
le tamer drudgeries of driving plough, and dropping 
Tith the glorious vision of being taken this year on the 
p to " the Banks," which comes on after planting. He 
tly — witness the " Robinson Crusoe," which never departs 
T his pillow, and Goldsmith's *' History of Greece and 
aich good Mr. Sewell has lent him, and he often brings 
iticisms on the character and course of Romulus or 
into the common current of every- day life, in a way that 
nilc over the grave face of Zephaniah, and makes Mrs. 
nk the boy certainly ought to be sent to college. 

Mara, she is now a child of seven, still adorned with 
n curls — still looking dreamily out of soft hazel eyes into 
lown future not her own. She has no dreams for herself 
1 all for Moses. 

3 sake she has learned all the womanly little accomplish- 
ch Mrs. Kittridge has dragooned into Sally. She knits 
I and his stockings, and hems his pocket-handkerchiefs, 
J to make his shirts all herself. Whatever book Moses 
hwith she aspires to read too, and though three years 
eads with a far more precocious insight. 
btle form is slight and frail, and her cheek has a clear 
t brilliancy quite diflferent from the rounded one of the 
ooks not exactly in ill health, but has that sort of trans- 
>earance which one fancies might be an attribute of fairies 
. All her outward senses are finer and more acute than 
uer and more delicate all the attributes of her mind. 

contend against giving woman the same education aa 
on the ground that it would make tYie^QttiWi ^q3&sbsl« 










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8, and the joang spring jQowers of New England, in thdr airy 
^scj and fragility, were much like herself — and so gtrong seemed 
Eii^ity between tiiem, that not only Mrs. Fennel's best India 
•& vaaes on the keeping-room mantel were filled, but here 
d a tumbler of scarlet rock columbine, and there a bowl of 
i and white violets, and in another place a saucer of shell- 
ed crow-foot, blue liverwort, and white anemone, so that 
baniah Fennel was wont to say there wasn't a drink of water 
be got, for Mara's flowers ; but he always said it with a smile 
t made his weather-beaten, hard features look like a rock lit up 
a sunbeam. Little Mara was the pearl of the old seaman's life, 
97 finer particle of his nature came out in her concentrated and 
tished, and he often wondered at a creature so ethereal belonging 
Hm — as if down on some shaggy sea-green rock an old pearl 
iker should muse and marvel on the strange silvery mystery of 
Krtjr that was growing in the silence of his heart. 
But May has passed ; the arbutus and the linnea are gone from 
woods, and the pine tips have grown into young shoots, which 
t at noon under a direct reflection from sun and sea, and the 
9 sky has that metallic clearness and brilliancy which dis* 
l^uiahes those regions, and the planting is at last over, and this 
Y morning Moses is to set off in the Brilliant for his first voyage 
he Banks. 

Glorious knight he I the world all before him, and the blood of 
years racing and throbbing in his veins as he talks knowingly 
looks, and sinkers, and bait, and lines, and wears proudly the 
flannel shirt which Mara has just finished for him. 
" How I do wish I were going with you I" she says. " I could 
lomething, couldn't I — ^take care of your hooks, or something ?*' 
^ Fooh 1" said Moses, sublimely regarding her while he settled the 
ar of his shirt, " you're a girl — and what can girls do at sea? 
L never like to catch fish — ^it always makes you cry to see 'em 


"Oh, yesj poor fish!" said Mara, perplexed between her 
ipathjr for the £sh and her desire for l\\e ^orj o^ "Wt \i<£«av 


which miisfc bo ibundoJ on thcip pain ; » I can't help fediug BorrJ 
whoii they gasp so." 

" Woll, ftud what do you suppose you would do when the n* 
arc pulling up twenty and forty pounder ? " said Mobcb, etridiBg 
Kublimely. " Why, they flop so, they'd knock you over in I 

'• Do they ? Oh, Moses, do be careful. What if they ibowl 

hurt you?" 

" Ilurt me ! " said Moses, laughing ; *' that's a good one. W 
liko to sec a fish that could hurt me" 

"Do hear that boy talk!" said ^Irs. Pennol, to her huabtf* 
as they stood within theur chamber-door. 

*'Ycs, yes," said Captain Tennel, smiling; "he's folloftto 
matter. I believe he'd take tho command of the schooner ^ 
morning if Vd let Mm." 

The Brilliant lay all this while curtseying on the waves, vhiA 

kissed and whispered to tho little coquettish craft. A fairer Jm* 

morning had not risen on the shores that week ; the blue mirror w 

the ocean was all dotted over with the tiny white sails of fishing* 

craft bound on the same errand, and the breeze that was j«k 

crisping tho waters had the very spirit of energy and adventnw 
in it. 

Everything and everybody was now on board, and she began to 

spread her fair wings, and slowly and gracefully to retreat fromtlw 


Little Moses stood on the deck, his black curls blowing in the 
wmd, and his large eyes dancing with excitement— his clear olive 
complexion and glowing cheeks well set off by his red shirt. 

Mrs. Pennel stood with Mara on the shore to see them go The 
and «!^^! f If en-haircd Ariadne shaded her eyes with one arm, 
BmaUc? « S"^ *^f ^^^'^ ^^^^^ ^^'^ ^^^^"«' *^ *he vessel grew 
^^ternal blue. ' '"'"^ ^""""^ '"'"''^ *^ °^"^* ^^^^ ^^^ t^« 

fi«Mtg?4ft l^tl.'"''''' ?^ }r'^ '^^* ^^^^ ^^^^^^ tl^ose little 
b craft as they went gaily out\YVL^\;^^a,W\.^^V^v.^^_4^ 


^— and seen them again no more. In night and fog they 
re gone down under the keel of some ocean packet or Indiaman, 
1 sank with faraYO hearts and hands, like a babble in the mighty 
tea. Yet Mrs. Fennel did not torn back to her house in appre- 
uaon of this. Her hosband had made so many voyages, and 
^ays retorned safely, that she confidently expected before hmg 
see them home again. 

The next Sunday the seat of Zephaniah Fennel was vacant in 
trch. According to custom, a note was put np asking prayers 

his safe return, and then everybody knew that he was gcme to 
» Banks ; and as the roguish, handsome face of Moses was also 
anng, Miss Boxy whispered to Miss Ruey, *^ There I CaptaLc. 
smells took Moses on his first voyage. We must contrive to call 
and <»i Miss Fennel afore long. She^ll be lonesome." 

Sonday evening Mrs. Fennel was sitting pensively with little 
m If ihe kitchen hearth, where they had been b(»ling the tea* 
Ukht their solitary meal. They heard a brisk step without, and 
^ Captain and Mrs. Eittridge made their appearance. 

** Good evening. Miss Fennel," said the Captain ; " Fs a tellin' 
r good woman we must come down and see how you^s a-getting 
>3ig. It's raly a work of necessity and mercy proper for the 
*id*s day. Rather lonesome now the Capting's gone, a*n't ye? 
•ok little Moses, too, I see. Wasn't at meetin' to-day, so I says, 
las Eittridge, well just step down and chirk 'em up a little." 

*' I didn't reaUy know how to come," said Mrs. Eittridge, as sho 
owed Mrs. Fennel to take her bonnet ; ^ but Aunt Rox/s to our 
use now, and she said she'd see to Sally. So you've let the boy 
to the Banks? He's young, a'n't he, for that ? " 

" If ot a bit of it," said Captain Eittridge. " Why, I was off to 
> Banks long afore I was his age, and a capital time we had of it, 
K Golly I how them fish did bite I We stood up to our knees 
fish before we'd fished half an hour." 

Mara, who had always a shy affinity for the Captain, now drew 
rard him and climbed on his knee. 

**2>i<f the wind Maw very hard ? " ahe said. 


blown up to Baffin's Bay. Pye seen that on his chart — 


then there's them *ere icebergs/' said Mrs. Kittridge ; 

^ys 'fraid of mnning into them in the fog." 

! " said Captain Kittridge, ^' IVe met 'em bigger than aU 

es np to Bninswick — great white bears on 'em — ^hungry 

1 the Primer. Once we came kersmash on to one of 'em, 

Flying Betsy hadn't been made of whalebone and inj^- 

e'd a-been stove all to pieces. Them white bears, they 

ngry, that they stood there with the water jist ninnin' 

ir chops in a perfect stream." 

dear, dear," said Mara, with wide round eyes, '^ what will 

[f they get on the icebergs ? " 

' said Mrs. Kittridge, looking solemnly at the child 

le black bows of her spectacles, '* we can truly say : 

' Dangers stand thick through all the ground, 
To push us to the tomb ; * 

m-book says." 

ind-hearted Captain, feeling the fluttering heart of little 
: seeing the tears start in her eyes, addressed himself 
to consolation. 

lever you mind, Mara," he said, *' there won't nothing hurt 
>k at me. Why, Fve been everywhere on the face of the 
ve been on icebergs, and among white bears and Indians, 
storms that would blow the very hair off your head, and 
, dry and tight as ever. You'll see 'em back before lon^." 
leerfal laugh with which the Captain was wont to chorus 
ces, sounded like the crackling of dry pine wood on the 
rth. One could hardly hear it without being lightened 
and little Mara gazed at his long, dry, ropy figure, and 
thin face, as a sort of monument of hope ; and his up- 
&ugh, which Mrs. Kittridge sometimes ungraciously com- 
" the crackling of thorns under a pot," seemed to her the 
ghtfiiJ thing in the world. 

'*°««^^'; ^''', 




ib!/^-**" w•„.^-"''^''^«?'' 

'"'^ i'ty, 



0.0.^, '"''''''^^r, in ret^^ ^one/' 




*^ Lord bless yon, yes, childf the IdndeBt crittors in tlie world 

f be, if you only get the right side of *em,*' said the Captain. 

••' Oh, yes! because," said Mara, "I know how good a wolf 

. to Komulus and Eemus once, and nursed them when they 

e cast out to die. I read that in the Eoman history." 

^^ Jist so," said the Captain, enchanted at this historic confirma- 

I. of his apocrypha, 

^^ And so," said Mara, ^' if Moses sJiould happen to get on an 

>erg, a bear might take care of him, you know." 

** Jist so, jist so," said the Captain ; " so don't you worry your 

le curly head one bit. Some time when you come down to see 

ly, we'll go down to the cove, and Til tell you lots of stories 

>iit chil'en that have been fetched up by white bears, jist like 

Hnulus and what's his name there? " 

** Come, Mis3 Kittridge," said the cheery Captain ; '* you 
td I mustn't be kecpiu' the folks up till nine o'clock." 

''Well, now," said Mrs. Kittridge, in a doleful tone, as she began 

put on her bonnet, "Miss Pennel, you must keep up your 
ititB — ^it's one's duty to take cheerful views of things. I'm sure 
any's the night, when the Captain's been gone to sea, I've laid 
Ml shook in my bed, hearin' the wind blow, and thinking what if 
ihould be left a lone widow." 

** There'd a-been a dozen fellows a- wanting to get you in six 
)nths, Polly," interposed the Captain. " Well, good night. Miss 
snnel ; there'll be a splendid haul of fish at the Banks this year, 
there's no truth in signs. Come, my little Mara, got a kiss for 
3 dry old daddy? That's my good girl. Well, good night, and 
3 Lord bless you." 

And so the cheery Captain took up his line of march home- 
xd, leaving little Mara's head full of dazzling visions of the 
id of romance to which Moses had gone. 

She was yet on that shadowy boundary between the dream - 
id of childhood and the real land of life ; so all things looked to 
? quite possible — and gentle white bears, with warm, soft fur 
^ pearl-and'^old midl^^ walked thxoug\\ \xfti ^^\aa^ %5x^ "sisk^ 


Ticlorioot <»rk ol Moaes appetved, witk hk bri|^t eyesai 
OTer glitteriDg piimacleB of firoflt in the ice-kiML 


Juke and Jo] j passed, and the lonely two liyed a qniet 
brown boiue. Eyerything was ao still and &ir — no son 
coming and going tide, and the swaying wind among the ; 
and the tick <^ the clock, and the whirr of the little wh( 
Fennel sat spiDDing in her door in the mild weather. 

Mara read the Roman histcHy through again, and 
third time, and read over and over again the stories and 
that pleased her in the Bible, and pondered the wood 
texts in a very old edition of iE^p^s Fables, and as she 
in the woods, picking firagrant bayberries and gathering 
oheckerberry, and sassafras to put in the beer which 1 
mother brewed, she mused on the things that she read ti] 
mind became a tabernacle of sol^nn, quaint, dreamy fon 
old Judean kings and prophets and Roman senators ai 
marched in and out in shadowy rounds. She invented Ic 
and conyersations in which they performed imaginary p; 
would not have appeared to the child in the least degree 
either to have met an angel in the woods, or to have for: 
timacy with some talking wolf or bear, such as she read of 

One day, as she was exploring the garret, she fouu< 
barrel of cast-off rubbish a bit of reading which she beg 
grandmother for her own. 

It was the play of the " Tempest," torn from an olc 
Shakespeare, and was in that delightfully fragmentary 
which most particularly pleases children, because they 
mutilated treasure thus found to bo more especially thei: 
perty — something like a rare wild-flower or sea-shell. TJ 
which thoD/grbtful and imaginative c\A\dc€u^m^\\m^\^<i 


ch they do not and cannot folly comprehend, is one of the 
omon and curious phenomena of childhood. 
so little Mara would lie for hours stretched out on the 
)ebbly beach, with the broad open ocean before her and 
speriog pines and hemlocks behind her, and pore over this 
om which she collected dim, deliglitful images of a lonely 
in old enchanter, a beautiful girl, and a spirit not quite 
se in the Bible, but a very probable one to her mode of 

>r old Caliban, she fancied him with a face much like that 
;e skate-fish she had once seen drawn ashore in one of her 
her*8 nets, — and then there was the beautiful young Prince 
id, much like what Moses would be when he was grown 
. how glad she would be to pile up his wood for him, if any 
anter should set him to work I 

attribute of the child was a peculiar shamefacedness and 
about her inner thoughts, and therefore the wonder that 
treasure excited, the host of surmises and dreams to which 
rise, were never mentioned to anybody. That it was all 
much authentic fact as the Roman history, she did not 
but whether it had happened on Orr*s. Island or some 
neighbouriug ones, she had not exactly made up hei 

resolved at her earliest leisure to consult Captain Kittridge 
subject, wisely considering that it much resembled some of 
r and aquatic experiences. 

e of the little songs fixed themselves in her memory, and 
Id hum them as she wandered up and down the beach. 

" Come unto these yellow sands 

And then take hands, 
Courtesied when you have and kissoi 

(The wild waves wist), 
Foot it featly here and there, 

And sweet sprites the burden bcai*.*' 

} another which pleased hex hiiW mQi£^\ 


«' FuU l&thoma five iby &ther ^m, 
Of his bones aro coral inade, 
Those aro poarls that were his eyes; 

Nothing of him that can fade 
But doth suffer a sea change 
Into something rich and strange ; 
Soa-nymphs hourly ring his knell— 
Hark, I hoar them—ding, dong, bGU." 

These words she pondered rerj long, gravely revolving ii 
lillle head whether they described the usual course of things ii 
inysterious under- world that lay beneath that blue spangled 
of the sea — ^^'hcthcr everybody's eyes changed to pearl, and 
bones to coral, if they sunk down there — and whether the 
nymphs spoken of were the same as the mermaids that Ci 
Kittridge had told of. Had ho not said that the bell rui 
church of a Sunday morning down under the waters ? 

Mara vividly remembered the scene on the sea-beacl 
finding of little Moses and his mother, the dream of the pa] 
that seemed to bring him to her ; and not one of the convert 
that liad transpired before her among different gossips hac 
lost on her quiet, listening little ears. These pale, still cl 
that pky without making any noise, are deep wells into whic 
many things which lie long and quietly on the bottom, am 
up in after years whole and now, when everybody else has i 
ten them. 

So she had heard surmises as to the remaining crew ( 
unfortunate ship — where, perhaps, Moses had a father. And 
times she wondered if he were lying fathoms deep with sea-n 
ringing his knell, and whether Moses ever thought about bin 
yet she could no more have asked him a question about it ■ 
she had been born dumb. She decided that she should neve 
him this poetry — it might make him feel unhappy. 

One bright afternoon, when the sea lay all dead asleep, a 
long, steady respiration of its tides scarcely disturbed the 
tranquillity of its bosom, Mrs. Fennel sat at her kitchen-dooi 
niug, when Captain Kittridge appewced. 


'' Gk>od aftemooD, Miss Fennel ; how ye gettia* along? *' 
" Oh, pretty well, Captain ; won't you walk in and have a glass 
^f teer?" 

*^ Well, thank you,^' said the Captain, raising his hat and 
Piping his forehead, " 1 be pretty dry, it's a fact." 

Mrs. Fennel hastened to a cask which was kept standing in a 

^^rner of the kitchen, and drew from thence a mng of her own 

*H)tne-brewed, fragrant with the smell of juniper, hemlock, and 

'^vintergreen, which she presented to the Captain, who sat down in 

^ doorway and discussed it in leisurely sips. 

*' Wal', s'pose it's most time to be lookin' for 'em home, ain't 

"I am looking every day," said Mrs. Fennel, involuntarily 
KkDcing upward at the sea. 

At the word appeared the vision of little Mara, who rose up 
Ske a spirit from a dusky corner, where she had been stooping over 
Ber reading. 

'•Why, little Mara," said the Captain, " you ris up like a ghost 
an of a sudden. I thought you's out to play. I come down a 
purpose arter you. Miss Eattridge has gone shoppin'up to Bruns- 
wick, and left Sally a ' stent ' to do ; and I promised her if sheM 
clap to and do it quick, I'd go up and fetch you down, and we'd 
have a play in the cove." 

Mara's eyes brightened, as they always did at this prospect, 
and Mrs. Fennel said, ** Well, I'm glad to have the child go ; she 
seems so kind o' still and lonesome since Moses went away; really 
one feels as if that boy took all the noise there was with him. I 
get tired myself sometimes heaiing the clock tick. Mara, when 
she's alone, takes to her book more than's good for a child." 

" She docs, does she? Well, we'll see about that. Come, little 
Mara, get on your sun-bonnet. Sally's sewin' fast as over she can, 
and we'r' goin' to dig some clams, and make a fire, and have a 
chowder ; that'll be nice, won't it ? Don't you want to come, too^ 
Miss Fennel?" 
^' Oh, tbauk yoiif Captain , but I've gol ^o xix^xi^ ^cwsv^ ^^x'^wsssSk 


to .lo afore they come home, I don't really think I can. m troi 
Mara to you any day." 

M.uM hal run into her own littlo room and aocored hcrpwcww I Li' 
fragniLMit of treasure, which she wrapj^ '^P carefally in her bad- 
koixhiL'f, ri'solving to enlighten Sally with the story, and tooonnlk iS: 
the Ca]>tAin on any nice points of criticism. Arrived at theeomi 
they found Sally already there in advance of them, dappiDgki 
hands and dancing in a manner which made her black elf-loch llf 
like tlioso of a distracted creature. 

*^Now, Sally,** said the Captain, imitating, in a humlde v«7t 
his wife's manner, " are you sure youVe finished your work wdl?"* 

" Yes, futher, every stitch on't." 

'^ And stuck in your needle, and folded it ap, and pnt it intiM 
<lrawer, and put away your thimble, and shet the drawer, andift 
the rest on't?'' said the Captain. 

"Yes. father," said Sally, gleefully, "I've done everything! 
could think off." 

" 'Cause you know your ma '11 be arter ye if ye don't leaYe 
everything straight." 

" Oh, never you fear, father, I've done it all half an hour ago, 
and I've found the most capital bed of clams just round the point 
here ; and you take care of ^lara there, and make up a fire while I 
dig 'em. If she comes, she'll be sure to wet her shoes, or spoil her 
trock, or something." 

" War, she likes no better fun now,*» said the Captain, watching 
^aiiy as she disappeared round the rock with a bright tin pan. 
loose \ *^^^^ P^^eeded to construct an extemporary fire-place of 
>'i wlUch"^' Tv ^ ^""^ together chips and shavings for the fire- 
^'"^S and b^^ • ^^^® ^^^^^ eagerly assisted ; but the fire was crack- 
^'^^l «o theT'?.''^'''''"^^^''''^ before Sally appeared with her clams, 
V ' ''^ «tone f^!^i.r x7^^^ ^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^"^^^^ ^"g^« ^y l^is side, sat 
, ^ Roughs V "" leisurely from time to time with crack- 

''^^^^i^'B ana \Zl^'Z ^^' ^l^y. ^or she was full of thc^ little 

wiat so often ein\i9».xxaaa ^^VVVSlkcvi v^ ^^m 

ripts to get at the meanings of things in this great world, 

"e they are such ignorant spectators. 

' Captain Kittridge,*' she said at last, " do the mermaids toll 

bells for peojde when they are drowned ? " 

^ow the Captain had never been known to indicate the least 

ranee on any subject in heaven or earth, which any one wished 

pinion on ; he therefore leisurely poked another great crackling 

;h of green hemlock into the fire, and, Yankee-like, answered 

question by asking another — " What put that into your curly 

«?" he said. 

"A book I've been reading says they do— that is, sea-nymphs 

A'n't sea^nymphs and mermaids the same thing? " 
** War, I guess they be, pretty much," said the Captain, rub- 
gdown his pantaloons ; " yes, they be," he added, after reflection. 

"And when people are drowned, how long does it take for 

it bones to turn into coral, and their eyes into pearl?" said 

le Mara. 

"Well, that depends upon circumstances," said the Captain, 

) wasn't going to be posed ; " but let me jist see your book you've 

Q reading these things out of." 

"I found it in a barrel up garret, and grandma gave it to me,*' 

. Mara, unrolling her handkerchief; " it's a beautiful book, — it 

! about an island, and there was an old enchanter lived on it, 

he had one daughter, and there was a spirit they called Ariel, 
rni a wicked old witch fastened in a split of a pine-tree, till the 
danter got him out. He was a beautiful spirit, and rode in the 
ed clouds and hung in flowers — ^because he could make himself 
or little, you see." 

*» Ah, yes, I see, to be sure," said the Captain, nodding his head. 
«* Wdl, that about sea-nymphs ringing his knell is here," Mara 
ed, beginning to read the passage with wide dilated eyes and 
it emphasis. " You see," she went on, speaking very fast, 
lis enchanter had been a prince, and a wicked brother had con- 
ed to send him to sea with his poot little daughter^ la a ihi^ «ft 
■f that the very rata had left it." 



said Mara, '^ did you ever see an enchanter that could 


there be witches and conjurers that make storms, 
ace when we was crossin' the line, about twelve o'clock 
lere was an old man with a long white beard that shono 
came and stood at the masthead, and he had a pitchfork 
1, and a lantern in the other, and there was great balls 
ig as my fist came out all round in the rigging. And 
I if we didn't get a blow that are night I I thought to 
t should all go to the bottom." 

," said Mara, her eyes staring with excitement, '* that 
^e this sliipwreck; and 'twas Ariel made those balls of 
)rs so ; he said he ' flamed amazement ' all over the ship." 
leard IVIiss Roxy tell about witches that made storms," 

ptain leisurely proceeded to open the clams, separating 
iTom. the contents, which he threw into a pan, mean- 
ng a black pot over the fire in which he had previously 
ertain shoes of salt pork, which soon began frizzling in 

Sally, you peel them potatoes, and mind you slice *em 
aid, and Sally soon was busy with her work. 

said the Captain, going on with his part of the arrange- 

ere was old Polly Swichell, that lived in that are old 

vn house on Mare Pint ; people used to say she brewedi 

I went to sea in a sieve." 

in a sieve I " said both children ; " why, a wove 

ore it wouldn*t, in any Christian way," said the Captain ; 

was to show what a great witch she was." 

this was a good enchanter," said Mara, ^^ and he did it 

ok and a rod." 

yes," said the Captain ; " that are*s the gen'l way 

do, ever since Moses' time in Egypt. 'Member once I 

'xaudria, ia Egypt, and I saw a llkSV^d'Mi >^<5St^ *Cw53w 



coaM jist 8ce everything you ever did in your life in a drop i 
that ho held in his hand.'* 

"lie could, father!" 

^^ To be sure he could ! told me all about the old folks at h 
and described our house as natural as if he*d a been there, 
used to carry snakes round with him — a kind so pisen that it 
certain death to haye 'em bite you ; but he played with 'em i 
they were kittens." 

'^ Well," said Mara, " my enchanter was a king; and wheD 
got through all he wanted, and got his daughter married to t 
beautiful young prince, he said he would break his staff, ti 
deeper than plummet sounded he would bury his book." 

^* It was pretty much the best thing he could do," said tk 
Captain, "because the Bible is agin such things." 

" Is it? " said Mara ; ** why, he was a real good man." 

** Oh, well, you know, we all on us does what a'n't quite ligU 
sometimes, when we gets pushed up," said the Captain, irto 
now began arranging the clams and sliced potatoes in altenut* 
layers with sea-biscuit, strewing in salt and pepper as he weot ot; 
and, in a few moments, a smell, fragrant to hungry sen&es, begH 
to steam upward, and Sally began washing and preparing soiM 
mammoth clam-shells, to serve as ladles and pLites for the fatoM 

!Mara, who sat with her morsel of a book in her lap, seendi 
deeply pondering the past conversation. At last she said:'- 
" What did you mean by saying you'd seen 'em act that al * 

" Why, they make it all seem real ; and they have a ahipwredti 
and you see it all jist right before your eyes." 

'' And the Enchanter, and Ariel, and Caliban, and all?''ni^ 

" Yes, all on't — plain as printing." 

" Why, that is by magic, a'n't it ?" said Mara. 

" No ; they hes ways to jist make it up -^ but "-^added the Oip 
tui'n, "Sallfy you needn't say noWuik! \ft^wv\\sM8.'\»>&^^^Q»s«!aa 


she wooldn^fc think Ts fit to go to moetin* for six monttis 

f she heard on*t.** 

^hj, aVt theaters good?" said Sally. 

^al\ there^s a middlin* sight o' bad things in *em," said the 

3, " that I most say— bat as long as folks is folks, why, they 

/o^^— but there^s never any makin* women folk understand 

hem are things." 

%m sorry they are bad,*' said Mara ; " I want to see them." 

^al\ wid\" said the Captain, " on the hull IVe seen roal 

I good deal more wonderful than all their shows— and they 

10 make-Vlieve to 'em — but theatres is takin' a'ter all. But, 

aind you don't say nothin' to Miss Ejttridge.'* 

3W moments more, and all discussion was lost in preparations 

meal, and each one receiving a portion of the savoury stew in 

shell, made a spoon of a small cockle, with which, and some 

f bread-and-butter, the evening meal went off merrily. The 

a sloping toward the ocean ; the wide blue floor was be- 

1 here and there with rosy shadows of sailing clouds. Sud- 

he Captain sprang up, calling out— - 

ire as I'm alive, there they be I *' 

''ho ? " exclaimed the children. 

Tiy, Captain Pennel and Moses ; don't you see? " 

1, in fact, on the outer circle of the horizon came drifting a 

small white-breasted vessels, looking like so many doves. 

lem's 'em,'* said the Captain, while Mara danced for joy. 

ow soon will they be here? " 

fore long,'* said the Captain ; '* so, Mara, I guess yoa'll 

> be getting hum." 


^£NNEL, too, had seen the white, dove-like cloud on the 
, and had hurried to make biscuits, and conduct other 
y^ pr^arations which should welcome the wanderers b$yccL^« 



The sua was jaat dipping into the great bkie 8ea-*a n 
of fire — and sending long, slanting tracks of light acroE 
of each waye, when a boat was moored at the beach, 
minister sprang out— not in his snit of ceremony, bat s 
fisherman^s garb. 

*^ Grood afternoon, Mrs. Fennel," he said. " I was on 
and I thought I saw your husband^s schooners in the dis 
thought rd come and tell you." 

" Thank you, Mr. Sewell. I thought I saw it, but I 
certain. Do come in; the Captain would be delighte 
you here." 

" We mifls your husband in our meetings," said Mi 
^' it will be good news for us all when he comes home ; 
of those I depend on to help me preach." 

" I'm sure you don't preach to anybody who enjoys i 
said Mrs. Fennel. ** He often tells me that the greates 
about his voyages to the Banks is that he loses so many £ 
{Mriyileges ; though he always keeps Sunday on his ship, ( 
and sings his psalms — but he says, after all, there's not! 
going to Mount Zion." 

"And little Moses has gone on his first voyage?" 

" Yes, indeed ; the child has been teasing to go for n 
a year. Finally, the Cap'n told him if he'd be faithfi 
ploughing and planting, he should go. You see, he's rather x 
and apt to be off after other things — ^very different froi 
Whatever you give her to do, she always keeps at it till it 

" And pray, where is the little lady ? " said the mini£ 
she gone ? " 

"Well, Cap'n Kittridge came in this afternoon to 
down to see Sally. The Cap'n 's always so fond of IMara. 
has always taken to him ever since she was a baby." 

" The Captain is a curious creature," gaid the minister, 

Mrs. Fennel smiled also ; and it is to be remarked tha^ 


ever mentioned the poor Captain^s name without the same curious 

" The Cap^n is a good-hearted, obliging creature," said Mrs. 
Pennel, "and a master hand for telling stories to the children." 

" Yes, a perfect ' Arabian Nights' Entertainment,' " said Mr. 

"Well, I really believe the Cap'n believes his own stories j" 
said Mrs. Pennel; "he always seems to, and certainly a moro 
obliging man and a kinder neighbour couldn't be. lie has been 
in and out almost every day since I've been alone, to see if I 
wanted anything. He would insist on chopping wood and splitting 
kindlings for me, though I told him the Cap'n and Moses had left 
a-plenty to last till they've come home." 

At this moment the subject of their conversation appeared 
striding along the beach, with a large, red lobster in one hand, 
whih with the other he held little Mara upon his shoulder, she tha 
while clapping her hands and singing merrily, as she saw the 
Brilliant out on the open blue sea, its white sails looking of a rosy 
purple in the evening light, careering gaily homeward. 

"There is Captain Kittridge this very minute," said Mrs. 
Pennel, setting down a tea-cup she had been wiping, and going 
to the door. 

" Good evening. Miss Pennel," said the Captain. " I s'poso 
you see your folks are comin'. I brought down one of these ere 
ready b'iled, 'cause I thought it might make out your supper." 

" Thank you, Captain ; you must stay and take some with us." 

" Wal', me and the children have puty much done our supper," 
said the Captain. " We made a real fust-rate chowder down there 
to the cove ; but Pll jist stay and see what the Cap'n's luck is. 
Massy ! " he added, as he looked in at the door, " if you ha'n't got 
the minister there 1 Wal', now, I come jist as I be," he added, 
with a glance down at his clothes. 

" Never mind, Captain," said Mr. Sewell j " I'm in my fishing 
clothes, so we're even." 


As to little Mara, she had ran down to the beach, and stood so 
near the sea, that every dash of the tide- wave forced her littile feet 
to tread an inch backward, stretching out her hai^ds eagerly toward 
tlic schooner, which was standing straight toward the small wharf, 
not far from their door. Already she could see on deck figures 
moving about, and her sharp little eyes made out a small personage 
in a red shirt that was among the most active. Soon all the figures 
grew distinct, and she could see her grandfather's grey head and 
alert, active form, and could see, by the signs he made, that he had 
perceived the little blowy figure that stood, with hair streambg 
in the wind, like some flower bent seaward. 

-And now they are come nearer, and Moses shouts and dances 
on the deck, and the Captain and LIrs. Fennel come running from 
the house down to the shore, and a few minutes more, and all aiQ 
landed safe and sound, and little Mara is carried up to the houss 
in her grandfather's arms, while Captain Kittridge stops to have 
a few moments' gossip with Ben Halliday and Tom Scranton before 
they go to their own resting-places. 

Meanwhile Moses loses not a moment in boasting of his heroic 
exploits to Mara. 

" Oh, Mara ! you've no idea what times we've had I I can fish 
equal to any of 'em, and I can take in sail and tend the helm like 
anything, and I know all the names of everything ; and you ought 
to have seen us catch fish I Why, they bit just as fast as we could 
throw ; and it was just throw and bite — ^throw and bite — throw 
and bite ; and my hands got blistered pulling in, but I didn't mind 
it — ^I was determined no one should beat me." 

" Oh ! did you blister your hands? " said Mara, pitifully. 

"Oh, to be sure! Now, you girls think that's a dreadful 
thing, but we men don't mind it. My hands are getting so hard, 
you've no idea. And, Mara, we caught a great shark." 

" A shark I — oh, how dreadful I Isn't he dangerous ? " 

"Dangerous I I guess not. We served him out, I tell you. 
He'll never eat any more people, I tell you, the old w retch 1 " 


" But, poor shark, it isn't his &nlt that he eats people. He was 
made so,^* said Mara, unconsciously touching a deep theological 

« Well, I don't know but he was,'* said Moses ; ** but sharks 
;hat we catch never eat any more, Til bet you.^* 

** Ob, Moses, did you see any icebergs ? ' 

" Icebergs ! yes ; we passed right by one — a real grand one." 

" Were there any bears on it ? " 

" Bears ! No ; we didn't see any." 

*' Captain Kittridge says there are white bears live on 'em." 

" Oh, Captain Kittridge," said Moses, with a toes of superb 
ontempt ; *' if you're going to believe aU he says, you've got your 
lands full." 

" Why, Moses, you don't think he tells lies ? " said Mara, the 
;eaiB actually starting in her eyes. ^' I think he is real good, and 
elis nothing but the truth." 

" Well, well, you are young yet," said Moses, turning away 
dth an air of easy grandeur, " and only a girl besides," he added. 

Mara was nettled at this speech. First, it pained her to have 
er child's faith shaken in anything, and particularly in her good 
Id Mend, the Captain ; and next, she felt, with more force than 
ver she did before, the continual disparaging tone in which Moses 
poke of her girlhood. 

" I'm sure," she said to herself, ** he oughtn't to feel so about 
jiIb and women. There was Deborah was a prophetess, and judged 
srael ; and theife was Egeria — she taught Numa Pompilius all his 

But it was not the little maiden's way to speak when anything 
hwarted or hurt her, but rather to fold all her feelings and 
houghts inward, as some insects, with fine gauzy wings, draw 
liem under a coat of horny concealment. 

Somehow, there was a shivering sense of disappointment in all 
his meeting with Moses. She had dwelt upon it, and fancied so 
auch, and had so many things to say to ^m '^ ^lA \!ka ^^aft^ ^^^SiS^ 



home 80 sclf-absorbcd and gbrious, and seemed to have bad so 
little need of or thought for her, that she felt a cold, sad sinking at 
licT heart; and walking away very still and white, sat do^n 
demurely by her grandfather's knee. 

" Well, so my little girl is glad grandfather's come," he said, 
lifting her fondly in his arms, and putting her golden head under 
his coat, as he had been wont to do from infancy; ** grandpa 
thought a great deal about his little Mara.'* 

The small heart swelled against his. Kind, faithful old grand- 
pa ! how much more he thought about her than Moses ; and yet 
slie had thought so much of Moses. 

And there he sat, this same ungrateful Moses, bright-eyed and 
rosy- cheeked, full of talk and gaiety, full of energy and vigour, as 
ignorant as possible of the wound he had given to the little loYing 
heart that was silently brooding under his grandfather's butternut- 
coloured sea coat. Not only was he ignorant, but he had not 
even those conditions within himself which made knowledge 

All that there was developed of him, at present, was a fund of 
energy, self-esteem, hope, courage, and daring, the love of action, 
life, and adventure ; his life was in the outward and present, not in 
the inward and reflective ; he was a true ten-year old boy, in its 
healthiest and most animal perfection. What she was, the small 
pearl with the golden hair, with her frail and high-strung organisa- 
tion, her sensitive nerves, her half-spiritual fibres, her ponderings, 
and marvels, and dreams, her power of love, and yearning for self- 
devotion, our readers may, perhaps, have seen. But if ever two 
children, or two grown people, thus organised, are thrown into 
intimate relations, it follows, from the very laws of their being, tliat 
one must hurt the other, simply by being itsell ; one must always 
hunger for what the other has not to give. 

It was a merry meal, however, when they all sat down to the 
tea-table once more, and ]\lara by her grandfather's side, who often 
shjjped what he was saying to stroke Uer head fondly. Moses boro 


a more prominent part in the conversation than he had been wont 
to do before this voyage, and all seemed to listen to him with a kind 
of indulgence elders often accord to a handsome, manly boy, in tho 
first flush of some snccessf al enterprise. 

That ignorant confidence in one's self and one's future, which 
comes in life's first dawn, has a sort of mournful charm in expc- 
rieDced ^es, who know how much it all amounts to. 

Gradually, little Mara quieted herself with listening to and 
admiring him. 

It is not comfortable to have any heart-quarrel with one's 

cherished idol, and everything of the feminine nature, therefore, 

can speedily find fifty good reasons for seeing one's self in 

^ wrong and one's graven image in the right ; and littlo 

Htta soon had said to herself, without words, that, of course, 

MoBfiB couldn't be expected to tliink as much of her as she 

^ Im, He was handsomer, cleverer, and had a thousand 

<^ things to do and to think of — he was a boy, in short, 

^d going to be a glorious man and sail all over the world, 

^Mle she could only hem handkerchiefs and knit stockings, 

and sit at home and wait for him to come back. This was about 

tb resume of life as it appeared to the little one, who went on from 

the moment worshipping her image with more undivided idolatry 

than ever, hoping that by-and-by he would think more of her. 

Mr. Sewell appeared to study Moses carefully and thought- 
folly, and encouraged the wild, gleeful frankness which he had 
brought home from his first voyage, as a knowing jockey tries tho 
paces of a high-mettled colt. 

"Did you get anytime to read?" he interposed once, when 
the boy stopped in his account of their adventures. 

"No, sir," said Moses; "at least," he added, blushing very 
deeply, " I didn't feel like reading. I had so much to do, and there 
was so much to see." 

" It's all new to him now," said Captain Pennel ; " but when 
he comes to bein^, as I've been, day after day^ mth iLothm^ 


but sea and eky, ho*U be glad of a book, just to break the 

" Laws, yes," said Captain Kittridge ; " sailor's life aint all 
apple-pic, as it seems when a boy first goes on a summer trip in^ 
bis daddy — not by no manner o' means." 

** But," said Mara, blushing and looking yery eagerly at Mr. 
Sewell, " Moses has read a great deal. He read the Roman and 
the Grecian history through before he went away, and knows aE 
about them." 

" Indeed ! " said Mr. Scwell, turning with an amused look 
towards the tiny little champion; " do yoa read them, toO} 
my little maid ? " 

" Yes, indeed," said Mara, her eyes kindling ; " I have re«d 
them a great deal since Moses went away — ^them and tb0 

Mara did not dare to name her new-found treasure — ^there iras 
something so mysterious about that, that she could not yentore to 
produce it, except on the score of extreme intimacy. 

" Come, sit by me, little Mara," said the minister, putting out 
his hand ; " you and I must be friends, I see." 

^Ir. Sewell had a certain something of mesmeric power in Iub 
eyes which children seldom resisted ; and with a shrinking moTC- 
ment, as if both attracted and repelled, the little girl got upon his 

'* So you like the Bible and Roman history? " he said to her, 
making a little aside for her, while a brisk conversation was going 
on between Captain Kittridge and Captain Fennel on the fishing 
bounty for the year. 

" Yes, sir," said Mara, blushing in a very guilty way. 

" And which do you like the best? " 

^^ I don^t know, sir ; I sometimes think it is the one, and 
sometimes the other." 

** Well, what pleases you in the Roman history ? ** 

•» Oh, I like that abojat Quint\» C\xtlVv>»:' 


"Qaintns Cirrtitis?" said Mr. Sewell, pretendiDg sot to 

" Oh, dont yoa remember him ? why, there was a great gulf 
:>pened in the Fomm, and the Augors said that the country would 
Dot be saved unless some one would offer themselves up for it, and 
So he jumped right in, all on horseback. I think that was grand. 
I should like to have done that,** said little Mara, her eyes blazing 
oat with a kind of starry light which they had when she was 

'^ And how would yon have liked it if yon had been a Koman 
girl, and Moses were Quintus Curtius? would you like to have 
lihn give himself up for the good of the country ? " 

** Oh, no, no 1" said Mara, instinctively shuddering. 

^^ Don*t you think it would be very grand of him ? ^ 

'' Oh, yes, sir." 

''And shouldn't we wish our Mends to do what is brave and 

'' Yes, sir ; but then," she added, " it would be so dreadful 
uver to see him any more," and a large tear rolled from the great 
K)ft eyes and fell on the minister's hand. 

'' Come, come," thought Mr. Sewell, '' this sort of ezperiment- 
ng is too bad — ^too much nerve here, too much solitude, too much 
jine-whispering and sea-dashing are going to the making up of 
his little piece of workmanship." 

'' Ten me," he said, motioning Moses to sit by him, '' how you 
ike the Roman history." 

'^ I like it first-rate," said Moses. *' The Romans were such 
mashers, and beat everybody — nobody could stand against them ; 
Old I like Alexander, too— I think he was splendid." 

" True boy," said Mr. Sewell to himself, " unreflecting brother 
»f the wind and the sea, and all that is vigorous and active— no 
>recocious development of the moral here." 

" Now you have come," said Mr. Sewell, "I will lend you 
oiother book." 



*^Tl)axik you, sir; I love to read them whea Tm 
—it's so still Ikto. I fehould be dull if I didn't." 

^Mitrii'd eyoji looked eagerly attentive. Mr. Sewell notii 
hun^^ry l<x)k when a book was spoken of. 

** And you must read it, too, my little girl," he said. 

^^ Thank you, sir, " said Mara ; *^ I always want to read 
thing Moses docs." 

*' What book is it ? »' said Mosos. 

'* It is calle<l riiitarcVs 'Lives,'" said the minister ; »'i\ 
more particular accounts of the men you read about in histoi; 

** Are there any lives of women ? " said Mara. 

** X«>, my dear," said Mr. Sewell; *'in the old times, woa 
did not fret their lives written, though I don't doubt many of tk 
were much better worth writing than the men's." 

" I should like to be a great general," said Moses, withatd 
of his head. 

** The way to be groat lies through books now, and not tbrooj 
buttles," said the minister ; " there is more done with pens tk 
swords ; bo, if you want to do anythiug, you must read and stad) 

" Do you think of giving this boy a liberal education?" sn 
^Ir. Sewell some time later in tlie evening, after Moses and M^ 
wure j^ono to bed. 

''Di'pcnda on the boy," said Zephaniah. "I've been up 
Brunswick, and seen the fellows there in the college. Witl 
goo<l many of 'em, going to college seems to be just nothing 1 
a sort of ceremony; they go because they're sent, and do 
loam anything more'n they can help. That's w^hat I call waste 
time and money." 

" ikit don't you think Moses shows some taste for reading i 
study ? " 

" Pretty well, pretty well !" said Zephaniah ; "jist keep hii 
little hungry ; not let him get all he wants, you see, and he'll 1 
the sharper. If I want to catch cod I don't begin with flin< 
ovor a barrel o' bait. So with the boys, jist bait 'em with a b 

MS. sbwsll's opinion of maha. 139 

a book there, and kind o' let 'em feel tbeir own way, and 
Qothin* will do bat a fellow must go to college, give in to 
it'd be my way." 

1 a yery good one, too I *' said Mr. SewelL " TU see if I 
it my hook, so as to make Moses take after Latin this 

I shall have plenty of time to teach him.*' 
nr, there's Mara ! '' said the Captain, his face becoming 
Gscent with a sort of mild radiance of pleasure, as it 
was when he spoke of her ; " she's real sharp set after 
she's ready to fly ont of her little skin at the sight of one." 
it child thinks too much, and feels too much, and knows 
ii for her years! " said Mr. SeweH. "If she were a boy, 
would take her away cod-fishing, as you have Moses, the 
s would bbw away some of the thinking, and her little 
•uld grow stout, and her mind less delicate and sensitive. 
I a woman," he said, with a sigh, '* and they are all alike. 
; do much for them, but let them come up as they will and 
J best of it." 


," said Mr. Sewell, " did you ever take much notice of that 

ira Lincoln ? " 

, brother; why?" 

jause I think her a very uncommon child." 

is a pretty little creature," said Miss Emily ; "but that is 

w ; modest — ^blushing to her eyes when a stranger speaks 

has wonderful eyes," said Mr. Sewell; " when she gets 
ihey grow so large and so bright, it seems almost un« 

ir me! has she ?" said Miss Emily, in the tone of one who 
called upon to do something about it, " Well ? " she 


*' That little tluDg is only seven years old,** said Mr. 
*' and Bhc is tbinking and feeling heradf all into mero i 
and ncrvos all actiTe, and her little body so fraiL She leadBi 
santly, and thinlu over and over what she reads.*' 

*^ Well ?** said Miss Emily, winding very swiftly on ai 
block silk, and giving a little twitch, every now and thOi^ 
A knot to make it subservient. 

It was commonly the way, when Mr. Sewell began to^ 
with Miss Emily, that she constantly answered him vi&i 
manner of one who expects some immediate, practical 
to flow from every train of thought. Now Mr. Sewdl 
one of the reflecting kind of men, whose thoughts lum] 
thousand meandering paths, that lead nowhere in 
His sister's brisk Kttle " Well's ? " and " Ah's! " and "Indeeftl 
were sometimes the least bit in the world annoying. 

*^ AVhat is to be done ? " said Miss Emily ; " shall we spd 
to IMrs. Pennel ? " 

" Mrs. Pennel would know nothing about her." 

" How strangely you talk I — ^who should, if she doesn't?" 

"I mean, she wouldn't understand the dangers of 1 

*' Dangers ! Do you think she has any disease ? She seema 
me a healthy child enough, Tm sure. She has a lovely cobui 
her cheeks." 

Mr. Sewell seemed suddenly to become immersed in a boot 
was reading. 

" There now," said Miss Emily, with a little tone of pic 
" that's the way you always do. You begin to talk with me, 
just as I get interested in the conversation, you take up a h< 
It's too bad." 

" Emily," said Mr. Sewell, laying down his book, *' I thii 
shall begin to give Moses Pennel Latin lessons this winter." 

"Why, what do you undertake that for?" said Miss En 
" You have enough to do without that, I'm sure." 


3e is an nncommooly bright boy, and he interests mc.'* 
^ow, brother, you needn^t tell me ; there is some mystery 
tihe interest you take in that child, you know there is." 
I am fond of children," said Mr. Sewell, drily, 
^ell, but you don^t take as much interest in other boys. I 
lieard of your teaching any of them Latin before.* 
n^ell, Emily, he is an uncommonly interesting child, and the 
Untial circumstances under which he came into our neigh- 

ood ^" 

Providential fiddlesticks I " said Miss Emily, with heightened 

t. " / believe you knew that boy's mother." 

his sudden thrust brought a vivid colour into Mr. Sewell's 

tB. To be interrupted so unceremoniously, in the midst of so 

;|roper and ministerial a remark, was rather provoking, and 

anwered, with some asi>erity — 

'And suppose I had, Emily, and supposing there were any 

fill subject connected with this past event, you might have 

ient forbearance not to try to make me speak on what I do not 

to talk of." 

Ir. Sewell was one of your gentle, dignified men, from whom 

'en deliver an inquisitive female friend! If such people 

1 onlj get angry, and blow some unbecoming blast, one 

t make something of them ; but speaking, as they always do, 

the serene heights of immaculate propriety, one gets in the 

g before one knows it, and has nothing for it but to beg 


Sss Emily had, however, a feminine resource : she began to 

•wisely confining herself to the simple eloquence of tears 

sobs. Mr. Sewell sat as awkwardly as if he had trodden 

kitten's toe, or brushed down a china cup, feeing as if 

sre a great, horrid, clumsy boor, and his poor little sister a 

Come, Emily," he said, in a softer tone, when the sobs sub- 
a little. 

142 TOB PEARL OP 01tK*8 ISLAS^^. 

Bat Emily didn^t '* oome,'' but went al it with afreEflil 

Mr. Sewell had a visicm like that which drowning men t 
to liave, in which all Miss Emily's nsterty derotioQS, 8b 
darnings, acoonnt-keepings, nursings and taidings, and 
Bclf-sacrificcs, rose up before him : and there she was— cryi 

*^ Pm sorry I spoke harshly, Emily. Gome, come ; 
good girl." 

"I'm a silly fool," said Miss Emily, lifting her he 
wiping the tears from her merry little eyes, as she went o 
iiig her silk. 

" Perhaps he will teU mo now," she thought as she woi 

But he didn*t. 

"What I was going to say, Emily," said her brothe 
that I thought it would be a good plan for little Mara 
sometimes with Moses ; and then, by observing her more 
larly, you might be of use to her : her little, active mil 
good practical guidance like yours." 

Mr. Sewell spoke in a gentle, flattering tone, and Mi 
was flattered ; but she soon saw that she had gained not 
the whole breeze, except a little kind of dread, which i 
inwardly resolve never to touch the knocker of his fortre 
But she entered into her brother's scheme with the facile 
with which she usually seconded any schemes of his propa 

" I might teach her painting and embroidery," said 'Mh 
glancing, with a satisfied air, at a framed piece of her o' 
which hung over the mantelpiece, revealing the state of 
arts in this country, as exhibited in the performances 
iistructed young ladies of that period. Miss Emily 1 
formed it under the tuition of a celebrated teacher o 
accomplishments. It represented a white marble obelisk, t 
inscription, in legible India ink letters, stated to be " Sacn 
memory of Theophilus Sewell," &c. This obelisk stood in t 
of a ground made very green by an embroidery of diLeren 
of chenille and silk, and was oYeTCh«.do^e,d. b^ o.^ <ittib 

toss miLT*^ CHSF-iy^CVKCd. 143 

^c^ng wOIow, Leaning on it, with her face ooneealed in a 
*^tt)if ul flow of iHiite handkerchief was a female figure in deep 
^^mming, designed to represent tiie desolate widow. A yoong 
ftaiin a rery 1>hck dr<». knett in fiont of it. and » Terr higa- 
^DQB-looldng yoong man, standing boU upright on the other side^ 
to hold in his hand one end of a wreath of roses, which the 
was presenting, as an appropriate decoration for the tomb. 
iShe girl and gentleman were, of coarse, the yoang Theophilns and 
IGbb Emily, and the appalling grief conyeyed by the expressicm of 
keir &ces was a triumph of the pictorial art. 

Miss Emily had in her bed-room a similar foneral trophy, 
IMsed to the memory of her deceased mother — ^besides which there 
j^oce, framed and glazed, in the little sitting-room, two embroidered 
I||eplierde8ses standing with meful fsu^es, in charge of certain 
iAimals of an uncertain breed between sheep and pigs. The poor 
VUk soul had mentally resolved to make Mara the heiress of all 
^ skin and knowledge of the arts by which she had been enabled 
x> consummate these marvels. 

" She is naturally a lady-like little thing," she said to herself, 
'and if I know anything of accomplishments, she shall hare them.**. 

Just about the time that Miss Emily came to this resolution, 
lad she been clairvoyant, she might have seen Mara sitting 
ery quietly, busy in the solitude of her own room with a little 
prig of partridge-berry before her, whose round green leaves and 
riOiant scarlet berries she had been for hours trying to imitate, as 
ppeared from the scattered sketches and fragments around her. 
n fact, before Zephaniah started on his spring fishing, he had 
aught her one day very busy at work of the same kind, with 
its of charcoal, and some colours compounded out of wild berries ; 
nd so out of his capacious pocket, after his return, he drew a 
ttle box of water-colours and a lead pencil and square of india- 
abber, which he had bought for her in Portland on his way 

Hour after hour the child works, so still so lervent^ so eaxih^t 


—going over and oyer, time after time, her simple, ignorant 
to make it *' look like,^* and etoppng, at times, to give 
artist's sigh, as the little green and scarlet fragment 1 
hopekssly, unapproachably perfect. Ign(»antljr to he: 
hands of the little pilgrim are knocking at the very dc 
Giotto and Cimabue knocked in the innocent child-life c 

" Why worCt it look round ? " she said to Moses, who 1 
in behind her. 

** Why, Mara, did you do these?** said Moses, ast 
** why, how well they are done I I should know in a min 
they were meant for.** 

Mara flushed up at being praised by Moses, but heave 
sigh as she looked back. 

" It*s so pretty, that sprig,** she said ; ** if I only couk 
iust like ^'* 

" Why, nobody expects *^f,*' said Moses, " it's like e: 
people only know what you mean it for. But come, now, 
bonnet, and come with me in the boat. Captain Kitti 
just brought down our new one, and Tm going to take yo^ 
Eagle Island, and we'll take our dinner and stay all day 
says so." 

*< Oh, how nice ! ** said the little girl, running cheer 
her sun*bonnet. 

At the house door they met Mrs. Fennel, with a little 
covered tin pail. 

** Here's your dinner, children ; and, Moses, mind t 
good care of her.** 

" Never fear me, mother, I've been to the Banks ; ther 
a man there could manage a boat better than I could.*' 

" Yes, grandmother,*' said Mara, " you ought to see ho 
his arms are ; I believe he will be like Samson one of these 
he keeps on.'* 

8o away they went. It was a glorious August foren* 


•re spraces and shaggy hemlocks that dipped and rippled in 
rs were penetrated to their deepest recesses with the clear 
J of the sky — a true northern sky, without a cloud, with- 
a softening haze, defining every outline, revealing every 
*oint, cutting with sharp decision the form of every pro- 
, and rock, and distant island. 

blue of the sea and the blue of the sky were so much the 
it when the children had rowed far out, the little boat 
x> float midway, poised in the centre of an azure sphere, 
irmament above and a firmament below. Mara leaned 
over the side of the boat, and drew her little hands through 
rs as they rippled along to the swift oars* strokes, and she 
le waves broke, and divided and shivered around the boat, 
d little faces, with brown eyes and golden hair, gleaming 
igh the water, and dancing away over rippling waves, 
ght that so the sea-nymphs might look who came up from 
d caves when they ring the knell of drowned people, 
.t opposite to her, with his coat off, and his heavy black 
•re wavy and glossy than ever, as the exercise made them 
th perspiration. 

3 Island lay on the blue sea, a tangled thicket of evergreens 
pine, spruce, arbor vitas, and fragrant silver firs. A little 
white beach bound it, like a silver setting to a gem. And 
)ses at length moored his boat, and the children landed, 
id was wholly solitary, and there is something to children 
ightful in feeling that they have a little lonely world all to 
es. Childhood is itself such an enchanted island, separated 
prions depths from the mainland of nature, life, and reality. 
8 had subsided a little from the glorious heights on which 
d to be in the first flush of his return, and he and Mara, in 
snce, were the friends of old time. It is true he thought 
^uite a man, but the manhood of a boy is only a tiny mas- 
— a fantastic, dreamy prevision of real manhood. It was 
that Mara, who was by all odds thQ moa\. ^t^wj^vs^^-^- 


! 'v< i >^>itl of the two, never thought of asserting herself awoman; ii 
\\w t , .-iho ucl Join thought of herself at all, but dreamed and pondewd | ._ 
el almost overj'thiug else. 

"I Jw'lani," said Moses, looking up into a thick-branM 
rii^Ti^'cd old hemlock, which stood all shaggy, with heavy beaidBfif 
^.roy mass drooping from its branches, "there's an eagle's neBt «p 
tlicrc ; 1 mean to go and see." 

Anil up he wont into the gloomy embrace of the old tree,cnck' 
lin^j the dead branches, wrenching off handfuls of grey mflii 
ri^in;; liij^luT and higher, every once in a while turning andahof 
in^ to Mara his glowing face and curly hair through adusky gEOli 
frame of Iwnglis, and then motmting again. "Tm coming toik,'^ 
lie kept exclaiming. 

^ I can while his proceedings seemed to create a sensation among 
the fiathcrcd housekeepers, one of whom rose and sailed screaming 
away into the air. In a moment after there was a swoop of wings 
and UNO eagles returned and began flapping and screaming aM 
tho li'-iulof the boy. 

;Mara, who stood at the foot of the tree, could not see clearly 
what was going on, for the thickness of the boughs ; she only heard 
a ^Mvat commotion and rattling of the branches, the scream of the 
birds, and the swooping of their wings, and Moses' valorous excla- 
mations, as he seemed to bo laying about him with a branch which 
he had broken off. 

At last he descended victorious, with the eggs in his pocket. 
"Miivix stood at the foot of the tree, with her sun-bonnet blown IxiQk, 
hor hair stroiuning, and her little arms upstretched, as if to catch 
him ir he fell. 

" Oh, I was so afraid ! " she said, as he set foot on the ground. 

" Afraid? Pooh ! Who's afraid? Why, you might luiow the 
old ea^'les couldn't beat me." 

" Ah, well, I know how strong you are ; but, you know, I 
couldn't help it lUit the poor birds — do hear 'em scream. MosoiS 
don't you suppose they feel bad?" 


** No, they're only mad, to think thoy cooldnH beat me. I beat 
Lem just as the Komans used to beat folks— I played their nest was 
city, and I spoiled it." 

^* I shouldn't want to spoil cities ! " said Mara. 

"That's 'cause you are a girl — I'm a man I — and men always 
ke war ; I've taken one city this afternoon, and mean, to take 
great many more." 

" But, Moses, do you think war is right ? " 

"Right? why, yes, to be sure; if it aint, it's a pity; for it's 
iDthat ever has been done in this world. In the Bible, or out, 
Mainly it's right. I wish I had a gun now, I'd stop those old 
eagles' screeching." 

" But, Moses, we shouldn't want any one to come and steal all 
eat things, and then shoot us." 

*^ How long you do think about things ! " said Moses, impatient at 
her pertinacity. " I am older than you, and when I tell you a thing's 
fight, you ought to believe it. Besides, don't you take hens' eggs 
JYery day, in the barn ? How do you suppose the hens like that ? " 

This was a home-thrust, and, for the moment, threw the little 
iasuist off the track. She carefully folded up the idea, and laid 
t away on the inner shelves of her mind, till she could think more 
ibont it. 

Pliable as she was to all outward appearances, the child had 
ler own still, interior world, where all her little notions and 
opinions stood up crisp and fresh, like flowers that grow in cool, 
hady places. If anybody too rudely assailed a thought or 
uggestion she put forth, she drew it back again into this quiet 
nner chamber, and went on. Reader, there are some women of 
this habit ; and there is no independence and pertinacity of opinion 
ike that of these seemingly soft, quiet creatures, whom it is so easy 
bo silence, and so difficult to convince. Mara, little and unformed 
is she yet was, belonged to the race of those spirits to whom is 
deputed the office of the angel in the Apocalypse to whom was 
given the golden rod which measured t\ie 1^«^ J^^wsesiL^ai. "Vc&^sX 


•l*V.. '^'KiM 


CHAFiin: xvn. 

-^iirri L*i betTi r^Tizt.* iic izn in BnniivielL. 1% 
:iri IB. ^ie; u> grhisaie iroat a cxiuege cwiah 

r. I ic^ T5. M»25 P--:hL" siSl Mj» Rout, 
pr^s&-l>said az>i td^ £&t iron, vis Baking Ikt 
in the Innm huose, ** I leii je Laan a^ki**! just vkit 
•^rrr-Lri' rc<ii>i s> cruik : toq most raaemhtr wlial 
«:! s&ii to Berhafi^i, king of Sjiia.^ 
[ienib»=r : wbai did he ay "? "• 
rr." s&id the sctft Toice of Mara : ^faesaid, ^ Lei not 
h on the hamesB boast as him that patteUi it <ifil' ** 
rou. Mara," said Mis Boxj ; ^* if some other Iblka 
s as much as Toa do, thev'd know more.** 
sses and MisB Boxy tfaeie had ahrayB been a state of 
ire since the days of his first airiTal, die rcg a id in g 
)pefdl interioper, and he regarding her as a grim* 
ring gnome, whom he disliked with all the intense, 
tipathy of childhood. 
\t old woman," he said to Mara, as he fiung oat of 

laes, what fat^^^ said Mara, who never ooold com* 

: anybody. 

her, and Aunt Raey, too. They are two old scratch* 

hate me, and I hate than ; they^re always trying to 

i> and I won^t be brought down.*' 

officient instinctiye insight into the feminine rdle in 

moert to adTentore a direct argoment jast now in 

Hends, and therefore she proposed that they should 

ber under a cedar hard by, and look o?er the first 


though she was, she had ever in her hands that inyifflble n 
rod, which she was laying to the foundations of all act 
thoughts. There may, perhaps, come a time when the sa 
who now steps so superbly, and predominates so proudly i 
of his physical strength and daring, will learn to tremblt 
golden measuring rod, held in the hand of a woman. 

** Howbcit, that is not Jirst which is spiritual, but that ^ 
naturaL*' Moses is the type of the first unreflecting at 
development, in which are only the ont-reachings of 
faculties, the aspirations that tend toward manly accomplishi 

Seldom do we meet sensitiveness of conscience or discrimic 
reflection as indigenous growth of a very vigorous physical de\ 

Your true healthy boy has the breezy, hearty virtues of a Is 
foundland dog — the wild ftdness of life of the young racen 
Sentiment, sensibility, delicate perceptions, spiritual aspiratic 
are plants of later growth. 

But there are, both of men and women, beings bom into i 
world in whom from childhood the spiritual and the reflect 
predominate over the physical. In relation to other human beii 
they seem to be organised much as birds are in relation to ot 
animals. They are the artists, the poets, the unconscious seers, 
whom the purer truths of spiritual instruction are open. Surv 
ing man merely as an animal, these sensitively-organised beii 
with their feebler physical powers, are imperfect specimens 
life. Looking from the spiritual side, they seem to have a n( 
strength, a divine force. The types of this latter class are n 
comm(Hily among women than among men. ]\Iultitudcs of tl 
pass away in earlier years, and leave behind in many he 
the anxious wonder, why they came so fair, only to mock the 1 
they kindled'. Thejr'who HVe to maturity are the priests 
priestesses of the spiritua!! life, ordaineil'of 0od to keep tjie. bait 
between the rude but Absolute Iriecessities of physical life and 
higher sphere to Whicli lihat must at W^lV \£c^^ ^i»a<i. 



felt elevated some inches in the world by the gift of a new 
'ammar, which had been bought for him in Brunswick. It 
;ep upward in life ; no graduate from a college ever felt 

al, now, I tell ye, Moses Fennel," said Miss Roxy, 
ith her press-board and big flat iron, was making her 
sojourn in the brown house, ^^ I tell ye Latin a^n*t just what 
ik 'tis, steppin' round so crank ; you must remember what 
; of Israel said to Benhadad, king of Syria.*' 
lonH remember ; what did he say ? " 
emember," said the soft voice of Mara ; *^ he said, ' Let not 
t putteth on the harness boast as him that putteth it off.' " 
lod for you, Mara," said Miss Roxy ; " if some other folks 
lir Bibles as much as you do, they'd know more." 
veea Moses and Miss Roxy there had always been a state of 
te warfare since the days of his first arrival, she regarding 
m unhopeful interloper, and he regarding her as a grim- 
interfering gnome, whom he disliked with all the intense, 
ding antipathy of childhood. 

late that old woman," he said to Mara, as he flung out of 

Tiy, Moses, what for ? " said Mara, who never could com- 
l hating anybody. 

io hate her, and Aunt Ruey, too. They are two old scratch- 
; ; they hate me, and I hate them ; they're always trying to 
le down, and I won't be brought down." 
a had sufficient instinctive insight into the feminine r51e in 
lestic concert to adventure a direct argument just now in 
y£ her friends, and therefore she proposed that they should 
Q together under a cedar hard by, and look over the first 


** ^ris3 Emily invited me to go over with you," she said, '* and 
I .should like so much to hear you recite.** 

Closes thought this very proper, as would any other male 
person, young or old, who has been habitually admired by any 
other female one. 

lie did not doubt that, as in fishing and rowing, and all other 
things ho had undertaken as yet, he should win himself distinguished 

" See here," he said ; " Llr. Sewell told me I might go as far as 
I liked, and I mean to take all the declensions to begin with^ 
there's five of *em, and I shall learn them for the first lesson, and 
tlieu I shall take the adjectives next, and next the verbs, and so in 
a fortnight get into reading." 

Mara heaved a sort of sigh. She wished she had been invited 
to share this glorious race ; but she looked on admiring when Moses 
road, in a loud voice, " Penna, pennie, pcnnoD, pennam," &c. 

" There now, I believe I've got it," he said, handing Mara the 
book ; and he was perfectly astonished to find that, with the book 
withdrawn, he boggled, and blundered, and stumbled ingloriously. 
In vain Mara softly prompted, and looked at him with soft, 
pitiful eyes as he grevr red in the face with his efforts to remember. 

" Confound it all 1 " he said, with an angry flush, snatching back 
the book ; " it's more trouble than it's worth." 

Again he began the repetition, saying it very loud and plain; 
he said it over and over till his mind wandered far out to sea, and 
while his tongue repeated ** penna, pennse," ho was counting the 
■white sails of the fishing smacks, and thinking of pulling up coJ- 
iibh at the Banks. 

" There now, Mara, try me," he said, and handed her the book 
Again ; " I'm sure I viust know it now." 

But, alas I with the book the sounds glided away ; au'l 
" penna," and " pennam," and " pennis," and " penufc" were cou- 
T'lsedly and indiscriminately mingled. 

Uq thought it must be Mara'a ia.u\t "^ ^\\<i ^^\>^^ t^"^^ Tv^jJ^-i^oc 


him just as lie was going to say it, or she didu't toll him 
r was he a fool ? or had he lost his senses ? 
first declension has been a valley of humiliation to many a 
oy — ^to many a bright one, too ; and often it is, that the 
I of thought and vigour the mind is, the more difficult is it 
iv it down to the single dry issue of learning those sounds, 
rich Heine said the Romans would never have found time 
cr the world if they had had to learn their own language ; 
, luckily for them, they were born into the knowledge of 
ins form their accusatives in " um." . , 

■ before Moses had learned the first declension, Iklara knew 
.rt ; for her intense amyety for him, and the eagerness and 
L which she listened for each termination, fixed them in her 
Besides, she was naturally of a more quiet and scholar-like 
a he, more developed in the intellectual. 
3 began to think, before that memorable day was through, 
•e was some sense in Aunt Roxy's quotation of the saying 
ing of Israel, and materially to retrench his expectations as 
me it might take to master the grammar; but still, his 
i will were both committed, and he worked away in this 
of labour with energy. 

IS a fine frosty, November morning, when he rowed Mara 
le bay in a little boat to recite his first lesson to IMr. 

Emily had provided a plate of seed cakiB, otherwise called 
for the children, as was a kindly custom of old times, when 
people were expected. 

Emily had a dim idea that she was to do something for 
her own department, while Moses was reciting his lesson ; 
refore producing a large sampler, displaying every form 
iety of marking stitch, she began questioning the little 
a low tone, as to her proficiency in that useful accom- 
mtJy, howevcTf BhQ discovered Uiat \k^ Q\i"i!iJi ^^ ^^^K^v^e.^ 



nucl uneasy, and that she answered without knowing what she was 
saying. The fact was that she was listening, with her whole aoiil 
in her eyes, and feeling through all her nerves, every word Moses 
was saying. She knew all the critical places, where he was liidy 
to go wTong ; and when at last, in one place, he gave the wrong 
tcrniination, she involuntarily called out the right one, starting up 
and turning towards them. In a moment she blushed deeplyi 
seeing ]Mr. Sewell and Miss Emily both looking at her with surprisei 

" Come here, pussy,^* said Mr. Sewell, stretching out his hand 
to her. " Can you say this ? " 

" I believe I could, sir." 

" Well, try it." i 

She went through without missing a word. Mr. Sewell then, 
for curiosity, heard her repeat all the other forms of the lesson. 
She had them perfectly. 

** Very well, my little girl," he said, " have you been studying, 

''*• I heard Moses say them so often," said Mara, in an apolo- 
getic manner, " I couldn't help learning them." 

" Would you like to recite with Moses every day ?" 

" Oh, yes, sir, so much." 

" Well, you shall. It is better for him to have company." 

Mara^s face brightened, and Miss Emily looked with a puzzled 
air at her brother. 

" So," she said, when the children had gone home, " I thought 
you wanted me to take Mara under my care. I was going to 
begin and teach her some marking stitches, and you put her up 
to studying Latin. I don't understand you." 

" Well, Emily, the fact is, the child has a natural turn for 
5tudy, that no child of her age ought to have ; and I have done 
just as people always will with such children ; there's no sense in it, 
but I wanted to do it. You can teach her marking and embroidery 
all the same ; it would break her little heart, now, if I were to 
turn her back," 


" I do not see of what use Latin can be to a woman." 
" Of what use is embroidery ? " 
** Why, that is an accomplishment." 

**Ah, indeed !'* said Mr. Sewell, contemplaiiug the weeping 
low and tombstone trophy with a singular expression, which it 
3 lucky for Miss Emily's peace she did not understand. The 
b was, that Mr. Sewell had, at one period of his life, had 
opportunity of studying and observing minutely some really 
3 works of art, and the remembrance of them sometimes rose up 
his mind, in the presence of the chef-d^ceuvres on which his 
er rested with so much complacency. It was a part of his quiet 
erior store of amusement to look at these bits of Byzantine 
broidery round the room, which affected him always with a 
)de sense of drollery. 

"You see, brother," said Miss Emily, "it is far better for 
men to be accomplished than learned." 

" You are quite right in the main," said Mr. Sewell, "only you 
at let me have my own way just for once. One can't be con- 
ent always." 

So another Latin grammar was bought, and Moses began to 
L a secret respect for his little companion, that he had never 
le before, when he saw how easily she walked through the laby- 
ths which at first so confused him. 

Before this, the comparison had been wholly in points where 
teriority arose from physical daring and vigour ; now he became 
are of the existence of another kind of strength with which he 
1 not measured himself. Mara's opinion in their mutual studies 
^ to assume a value in his eyes that her opinions on other 
jects had never done, and she saw and felt, with a secret grati- 
ktion, that she was becoming more to him through their mutual 
■suit. To say the truth, it required this fellowship to inspire 
ses with the patience and perseverance necessary for this species 
acquisition. His active, daring temperament little inclined him 
patier** , g uiefc Btvdy, For anything tbat co\i\d. "b^ ^ovvaVj Vn^ 


Inndfl, he was always ready; bat to hold hands stOl and^oil^ 
f^ilontly iu the iuner forces, was to him a species of undertaking tbat 
SLVineil against hia very nature ; but then he would do it— he would 
not disgraco himself before Mr. Scwell, and let a girl younger tba 
himself out- do him. 

Ikit the tiling, after all, that absorbed more of Moses^ 
than all his lessons was the building and rigging of a small schoonSi 
at which ho worked assiduously in all his leisure moments. HbI ' 
liail dozens of blocks of wood, into which he had cut anchor monl^i] 
ami the melting of lead, the running and shaping of anchors, tl»j 
whittling of masts and spars took up many an hour. Mara ent 
into all these things readily, and was too happy to make he 
useful in hemming tho sails. 

AVheu the schooner was finished, they built some way> 
down by the sea, and invited Sally Kittridge over to see ik ' 
launched. ' 

" There ! " he said, when the little thing skimmed down pros- 
perously into the sea and floated gaily on the waters — " when Pni 
a man, I'll have a big ship ; I'll build her, and launch her, and 
command her, all myself ; and I'll give you and SJly hotli a 
passage in it, and we'll go off to the Eaist Indies — we'll sail rouv.l 
the world 1 " 

None of tho three doubted the feasibility of tliis scheme ; the 
little vessel they had just launched seemed the visible prophecy of 
such a future ; and how pleasant it would be to sail off, with tho 
world all before them, and winds ready to blow them to any port 
they might wish ! 

Tho three children arranged some bread and cheese and dough 
nuts on a rock on the shore, to represent the collation that wa 
usually spread in those parts at a ship launch, and felt quite lik 
grown people — acting life beforehand in that sort of shadow 
pantomime which so delights little people. 

Happy, happy days — when ships can be made with a jack-kiiii 
and anchors nm in pine blocks, and t\iT<i?i ^iVvvVdi^w. tio^ether ca 


hooner, and the voyage of the world can all be made in 
Saturday afternoon ! 

er says you are going to college," said Sally to Moses. 
', indeed," said Moses; "as soon as I get old enough, 
ip to Umbagog among the lumberers, and I'm going to 
lendid timber for my ship, and I'm going to get it on 
and have it built to suit myself." 
Avill you call her ? " said Sally. 
3n't thought of that," said Moses. 
Lcr the Ariel," said Mara. 

- ! after the spirit you were telling us about ? " said Sally, 
is a pretty name," said Moses. **Biit what is that 

" said Sally, *' Mara read us a story about a ship that 
!d, and a spirit called Ariel, that sang a song about tho 

ave a shy, apprehensive glance at Moses, to see if this 
led up any painful recollections. 

stead of this, he was following the motions of his little 
1 the waters with the briskest and most unconcerned 

diJa't you ever show me that story, Mara ? " said IMoscs. 
Dloured and hesitated ; the real reason she dared not say. 
, she read it to father and me down by the cove," said 
e afternoon that you came home from the Banks; I 
low we saw you coming in ; don't you, Mara? " 
) have you done with it ? " said Closes, 
jot it at home," said IMara, in a faint voice ; |' I'll show 
if you want to see it ; there are such beautiful things 

vening, as Moses sat busy, making some alterations in 
<; schooner, Ikfara produced her treasure, and read and 
to him the story. He listened with interest, though 
y of tbo extreme feeling wblc\i Mai^. \\^^Qvx^S> \<5{5,- 


tiible, and even iutermpted her once in the middle o! tk 

celebrated — 

" Full fathom five thy father lies," 

by asking her to hold up the mast a minute, while he drove in ft 
]H?g to make it rake a little more. He was, eyidently, thinking of 
no drowned father, and dreaming of no poesible sea-caves, b 
acutely busy in fashioning a present reality ; and yet he liked to : 
hear Mara read, and, when she had done, told her that he thongb^ ! 
it was a pretty— quite a pretty story, with such a total absence of ] 
recognition that the story had any affinities with his own history, <, 
that Mara was quite astonished. 

She lay and thought about him hours, that night, after 8heluid| 
gone to bed ; and he lay and thought about a new way of dispodngl 
a pulley for raising a sail, which he determined to try the effect of' 
early in the morning. 

What was the absolute truth in regard to the boy? Had lie 
forgotten the scenes of his early life, the strange catastrophe that 
cast him into his present circumstances ? To this we answer that 
all the efforts of Nature, during the early years of a healthy child- 
hood, are bent on effacing and obliterating painful impressions, 
wiping out from each day the sorrows of the last, as the daily tide 
effaces the furrows on the sea- shore. 

The child that broods, day after day, over some fixed idea, ii 
so far forth not a healthy one. It is Nature's way to make first s 
healthy animal, and then develop in it gradually higher faculties 
We have seen our two children unequally matched hithertc 
because unequally developed. 

There will come a time, by-and-by in. the history of the boj 
when the haze of dreamy curiosity will steam up likewise froi 
his mind, and vague yearnings, and questionings, and longing 
possess and trouble him, but it must be some years hence. 



.m.u «ju Id M,i..njm 

PART 11. 


bw, Where's Sally Battridge? There's the clock striking 11 ye, 
.nobody to set the table. Sally, I say ! Sally !" 
" Why, Mis' Kittridge," said the Captain, " Sally's gone out 
e'n an hour ago, and I expect she's gone down to Fennel's, to 
Mara, 'cause, you know, she come home from Portland to- 


" Well, if she's come home, I s'pose I may as well give up 

iu' any good of Sally, for that girl fairly bows down to Mara 

coin, and worships her.*' 

" Well, good reason," said the Captain ; " there a'n't a pretercr 

iture breathin'. Pm a'most a mind to worship her myself." 

" Captain Kittridge, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, at 

r age, talking as you do." 

" Why, laws, mother, I don't feel my age I " said the frisky 

)tain, giving a sort of skip ; "it don't seem more'n yesterday 

e you and I was a courtin', Polly. What a life you did lead 

in them days ! I think you kep' me on the anxious seats a 

'ty middlin' spell." 

**I do wish you wouldn't talk so. You ought to be ashamed 

36 triflin' round as you do. Come, now, can't you jest tramp 

p to Pennel's, and tell Sally I want her ? " 

" 'Not J, mother. There aint but two g\i\^ m \»\?Ci ic^'csi. ^is^^^ 


here, and I aint a-goin' to be the fellow to shoo ^em 
AV hat's the use of being gals, and young and putty, if 
get together and talk about their new gownds and thefe 
That ar*s what girls is for.*' 

" I do wish you wouldn^t talk in that way before SaHy, 
for her head is full of all sorts of vanity now ; and as to Maiii| 
netcr did see a more slack-twisted flimsy thing than she^s 
up to be. Now Sally's learnt to do something, thanks to 
She can brew, and she can make bread, and cake, and 
and spin, and cut, and make. But as to Mara, what does eh 
Why, she paints picturs. Mis' Fennel was a-showin' on 
blue jay she painted, and I was a-thinkin' whether she could 
one fit to be eat, if she tried ; and she don't know the prioel 
nothin'," continued Mrs. Eittridge, with wasteful profoaos 

" Well," said the Captain, " the Lord makes some things jiskt 
bo looked at. Their work is to be pretty, and that ar's Mtd 
sphere. It never seemed to me she was cut out for hard worft 
but she's got sweet ways and kind words for everybody, and S 
as good as a psalm to look at her." 

*' And what sort of a wife 'U she make. Captain Kittridge f '* 

" A real, sweet, putty one," said the Captain, persistently. 

" Well, as to beauty, I'd rather have our Sally any day," sa 
Mrs. Kittridge; "and she looks strong and hearty, and seems 
be good for use." 

" So she is, so she is," said the Captain, with fatherly prid 
" Sally's the very image of her ma' at her age— black eyes, bla 
hair, tall and trim as a spruce-tree, and steps off as if she h 
springs in her heels. I tell you, the fellow '11 have to be spry tl 
catches her. There's two or three of *em at it, I see ; but Sa 
won't have nothin' to say to 'em. I hope she won't yet awhile.' 

" Sally is a girl that has as good an eddication as money c 
give," said Mrs. ICittridge. *' If I'd a had her advantages at 1 
age, I should a been a great deal more 'n I am. But we ha': 
spared nothin' for Sally ; and when noWiKxi* -woviW ^c^ \»>\\» \&5 

>. BKiiL WaJ> ass's COLli ^^ ^ 

i^ to Miss Placher's school over in Portland, why, I 
boo — for aU she^s our seventh child, and Fennel hasn't 


)rget Moses," said the Captain. 

he's settin' up on his own account, I guess. They did 
Dg him college eddication ; but he was so unstiddy, 
't no use in trying. A real wild ass's colt he was." 
val, Moses was in the right on't. He took the cross lot 
life," said the Captain. ** Colleges is well enough for 
h, straight-grained lumber, for gen'ral buildin' ; but 
)ws that's got knots, and streaks, and cross-grains, like 
el, and the best way is to let 'em eddicate 'emselves, as 
. He's cut out for the sea, plain enough, and he*d 
p to Umbagog, cuttin' timber for his ship, than bavin' 
ators, and blowin' the roof off the colleges, as them 'ere 
>ws is apt to when he don't have work to use up his 
ly, mother, there's more gas got up in them Brunswick 
>m young men that are spilin' for hard work, than you 
a stick at I But Mis' Fennel told me yesterday she 
.' Moses home to-day." 
that's at the bottom of Sally's bein' up there," said Mrs. 

Kittridge," said the captain, " I take it you aint the 
rould encourage a daughter of your bringing up to be 
fter any young chap, be he who he may," said the 

ttridge for once was fairly silenced by this home-thrust; 
I, she did not the less think it quite posrible, from all 
ew of Sally ; for although that young lady professed 
aess of heart and contempt for all the young male 
of her acquaintance, yet she had evidently a turn for 
heir ways, probably purely in the way of philosophical 

U/2 tn« PRABt OP 01«*8 I8LA>1>. 


In fact, at tbU rery momeut oar scene-shifter changes the ^ 
Away i6i\& the image of Mrs. Kittridge^s kitchen, with its sa 
lloor, ita scoured rows of bright pewter platters, its great deqp 
lilace, with wide stone hearth, ita little looking-glass, with a 1 
;u{paragU8 bosh, like a green mist, over it. Exevmt the imi 
Mrs. Kittridge, with her hands floury from the bread she has 
moulding, and the dry, ropy, lean captain, who has been s 
tilting back in a splint-bottomed chair, and the next scene * 
rolling in. It is a chamber in the house of Zephaniah ?• 
whose windows present a blue panorama of sea and sky. Th 
two windows you look forth into the blue belt of Harpswell 
bordered on the further edge by Harpswell Neck, dotted bei 
there with houses, among which rises the little white me 
Louse, like a mother bird among a flock of chickens. The 
window on the other side of the room looks far out to sea, 
ouly a group of low rocky islands interrupts the clear s^ 
the horizon line, with its blue infinitude of distance. 

The furniture of this room, though of the barest anc 
frigid simplicity, is yet relieved by many of those touches o 
and fancy which the indwelling of a person of sensibili 
imagination will shed off upon the physical surroundings 
bed was draped with a white spread, embroidered with a 1 
knotted tracery, the working of which was considered amo 
female accomplishments of those days; and over the hea 
was a painting of a bunch of crimson and white trillium, e: 
with a fidelity to Nature that showed the most delicate | 
observation. Over the mantelpiece hung a painting of the 
Genoa, which had accidentally found a voyage home in Zef 
Ponnel's sea-chest, and which skilful fingers had surround( 
^ frame curiously wrought of moss and sea-shells. Two i 
"dia china stood on the mantel, filled with spring flowers- 
^ot, anemones, liverwort, with droopVu^ \><iW«> qI W^ \.m,w 


(king-glass that hung oyer the table in one corner of the 
as fancifblly webbed with long, drooping festoons of tliat 
:>ss which hangs in such graceful wreaths from the boughs 
pines in the deep forest shadows of Orr^s Islaud. On the 
ilow was a collection of books ; a whole set of Shakespeare, 
Sephaniah Fennel had bought of a Portland bookseller ; a 
n, in prose and yerse, from the best classic writers, pre- 
to Mara Lincoln, the fly-leaf said, by her sincere friend, 
lilus Sewell; a Virgil, much thumbed, with an old, worn 
which, however, some adroit fingers had concealed under a 
r of delicately marbled paper ; there was a Latin dictionary, 
)f Plutarch's Lives, the " Mysteries of Udolpho," and " Sir 
8 Grandison," together with Edwards " On the Affections," 
oston's " Fourfold State ; " there was an inkstand, curiously 
red from a sea-shell, with pens and paper in that phase of 
^ment which betokened frequency of use; and, lastly, a 
«rork-bask6t, containing a long strip of curious and delicate 
idery, in which the needle yet hanging showed that the work 
I progress. 

r a table at the sea-looking window sits our little Mara, now 
I to the maturity of seventeen summers, but retaining still 
takable signs of identity with the Uttle golden-haired, 
y, excitable, fianciful " Pearl " of Orr's Island, 
e is not quite of a middle height, with something beautiful 
lild-like about the moulding of her delicate form. We stiU 
Dse sad, wistful, hazel eyes, over which the lids droop with a 
y languor, and whose dark lustre contrasts singularly with 
Iden hue of the abundant hair which waves in a thousand 
ig undulations around her face. The impression she pro- 
is not that of paleness, though there is no colour in her 
; but her complexion has everywhere that delicate pink tint- 
hich one sees in healthy infants, and with the least emotion 
jQhq into a fluttering bloom. Such a bloom is on l*er cheek 
3 moment, as she is working away, copying a bunch of scarlet 
'olnmhino which is in a wine -glass of wa*)QT \>^lo"t^\\^\: \ ^^sr| 


f -w ni.nients and lioldiog her work at a distance, to coa-j 
t mi'lato its cfft'ct. At this moment there steps hehind her chain 
t ill, lithe figure, a face with a rich Spanish complexion, large ^ 
I yrs, glowing ch(\.k8, marked eyebrows, and lustrous black 
arnin'Til in shining braids around her head. It is our old: 
Sally Kittridge, whom common fame calls the handsom^t £^< 
all thii region round Harjiswell, Macquoit, and Orr's Islani 
truth, a wliolesome, ruddy, blooming creature she was, thesigli 
whom clicered and warmed one like a good fire in Deceml)er; 
hIic scriiifd to have enough and to spare of the warmer 
vitality and joyous animal life. She had a well-formed mouth, 1 
rather large, and a frank laugh which showed all her teeth 
— and a fortunate sight it was, considering that they were 
and even as pearls ; and the hand that she laid upon Man's I 
4hiH moment, though three times as large as that of the 
artist, was yet in harmony with her vigorous, fincly-devdojp^ 

"Mara Lincoln," she said, " you are a witch, a perfect litfll 
witch, at painting. How you can make things look so like Idou^ 
HOC Xuw, I could paint the things we painted at Miss Plucker's', 
but then, dear mc, they didn't look at all like flowers. One needed 
to write under them what they were made for." 

" Docs this look like to you, Sally ? " said Mara. " I wish it 
would to me. Just see what a beautiful clear colour that flovei 
is. All I can do, I can't make one Uke it. My scarlet and yellow 
sink dead into the paper." 

" \\'hy, 1 think your llowcrs arc wonderful ! You are a real 
genius, that's what you arc ! I am only a common girl ; I can't 
<lo things as you can." 

'^ You can do things a thousand times more useful, Sally. I 
don't pretend to compare with you in the useful arts, and I am 
only a bungler in ornamental ones. Sally, I feel like a useless little 
creature. If I could go round, as you can, and do business, and 
make bargains, and push ahead in the world, I should feel that I 
was good for something ; but somd\o\^ I c^oi't." 


snre yoa can*t,** said Sally, langbiDg. ^ I shonH like 
ry it." 

" pursued Mara, in a tone of lamentation, ** I could no 

ito a carriage and driye to Bruoswick as you can, than 

. I can^t drive, Sally — something is the matter with me, 

)rses always know it the minute I take the reins ; they 

itch their ears, and stare round into the chaise at me, as 

o say, 'What! you there?' and I feel sure they nererwiU 

And then, how you can make those wonderful bargains 

£ can't see ! You talk up to the clerks and the m^i, and 

r you talk everybody round ; but as for me, if I only open 

ith in the humblest way to dispute the price, everybody 

e down. I always tremble when I go into a store, and 

talk to me just as if I was a little girl, and once or twice 

ave made me buy things that I knew I didn't want, just 

« they will talk me down." 

Oh, Mara, Mara ! " said Sally, laughing till the tears rolled 
i her cheeks, " what do you ever go a-shopping for? Of 
«, you ought always to send me. Why, look at this dress — 
India chintz ; do you know, I made old Pennywhistle's derk 
1 Brunswick give it to me just for the price of common cotton? 
see, there was a yard of it had got faded by lying in the shop 
jOw, and there were one or two holes and imperfections in it, 
jrou ought to have heard the talk I made ! I abused it right 
left, and actually at last I brought the poor wretch to believe 
he ought to be grateful to me for taking it off his hands. 
, you see the dress Tve made of it. The imperfections didn't 
it the least in the world as I managed it, and the faded 
Ith makes a good apron — so you see. And just so I got that 
potted flannel dress I wore last winter. It was moth-eaten in 
►r two places, and I made them let me have it at half-price — 
I exactly as good a dress. But, after all, Mara, I can't trim 
met as you can, and I can't come up to your embroidery, nor 
lace work, nor I can't draw and paint as you can, and I can't 
like you; and then, as to all tho^ things you talk with Mr « 

JL XU etUO* KJCUAjr f tUAVAVy <*A*T(*J0 jo C* Ut.CU.Xl. XV/1J.V/ tf i-Ug 

where, at singing-school and Thursday lecture." 

** Yea — but what do I care for 'em ? " said Sally, w: 

her head. '* "Why they follow me, I don't see. I do 

tiling to make 'em, and I tell 'em all that they tire m 

and still they will hang round. AVhat is the reas 

suppose? " 

"What can it be?" said Mara, with a quiet k 

drollery which suffused her face, as she bent over her p 
"Well, you know I can't bear fellows — I thiB 


"What I Even Tom ffiers?" said Mara, coni 

"Tom Hiers! do you suppose I care for him? 
insist on waiting on me round all last winter, taking 
his boat to Portland, and up in his sleigh to Brunj 
didn't care for him." 

« ^: f'T'^ •^^'^y ^^^' ^P a* Brunswick." 
J^Tiatl that little snip of a clerk 1 You don't su 
for lum, do you?^only he ahnost runs his head off f 

r^i^^iZLlV^- ^^^PP^^-^-« -thing 


^t is three years,'' said Mara. " I scarcely know what he is 

Dw. I was Tisiting in Boston when Le came home from his 

years' voyage, and he was gone into the lumbering country 

1 came back. He seems almost a stranger to me." 

He's pretty good-looking,*' said Sally. " I saw him on Sunday 

he was here, but he was off on Monday, and never called on 

Lends. Does he write to you often ? " 

S^ot very," said Mara, " in fact, almost never — ^and when ho 

here is so Httle in his letters." 

Well, I tell you, Mara, you must not expect fellows to write 

Is can. They don't do it. Now, there's all our boys : when 

nrrite home they tell the latitude, and longitude, and soil, and 

Lctions, and such things. But if you or I were only there, 

you think we should find something more to say ? Of course 

ould — fifty thousand little things that they never think of." 

IsTA made no reply to this, but went on very intently with 

tainting. A close observer might have noticed a suppressed 

hat seemed to retreat far down into her heart. Sally did not 

i it. 

liat was in that sigh ? It was the sigh of a long, deep, inner 

y, unwritten and untold — such as there are thousands of 

firing daily, of which we take no heed. 



have introduced Mara to our readers as she appears in her 
3enth year, at the time when she is expecting the return ox 
laa a young man of twenty ; but we cannot do justice to the 
gs which are aroused in her heart by this expectation, with- 
iving one or two chapters to tracing the history of Moses since 
ft him as a boy commencing the study of the Latin grammar 
Mr. Sewell. The reader must see the forces that acted upon 
irly development, and what they have matle of him. 
i is common for people who write tros^tiaea ou ed\via»tioii tA 


fcivc forth their mleB and theorieB with a aelfHotiafielttr, •> if ij 
Iininan being were a thing to bo made up, like a batdiof 
out of a given number of materiala combined bj an ii 


Take your child, and do thus and so for a given nnmbeti 
years, and he comes out a thoroughly educated individuaL 

But, in fact, education is in many eases nothing more timt 
blind struggle of parents and guardians with the evolatioDSofi 
strong, predetermined character, individual, obstinate,' 
and seeking by an inevitable law of its being to develop itsdf i 
gain free expression in its own way. Captain Eittridge's 
that ho would as soon undertake a boy as a Newfoundland pQk! 
good for those whose ideas of what is to be done for a 
b >ing are only what would be done for a dog — namely, give! 
F^liolter, and world-room, and leave each to act out his own: 
>vithout let or hindrance. 

But everybody takes an embryo human being with some ph^^ 
of one's own what it shall do or be. The child's future shall f^ 
out some darling purpose or plan, and fulfil some long unfulfilkd 
expectation of the parent. And thus, though the wind of evetx 
generation sweeps its hopes and plans like forest-leaves, none an 
>viiirlcd and tossed with more piteous moans than those which cane 
out green and fresh to shade the happy spring-time of the cradle. 

For the temperaments of children are often as oddly unsoited 
to parents as if capricious fairies had been filling cradles witb 

A meek member of the Peace Society, a tender, devout, poet- 
ical clergyman, receives an heir firom heaven, and straightway de« 
votes liim to the Christian ministry. But, lo ! the boy proves a 
young war-horse, neighing for battle, burning for gunpowder and 
guns, for bowie-knives and revolvers, and for every form and ex- 
pression of physical force. He might make a splendid trapper, an 
energetic sea-captain, a bold, daring military man ; but his whole 
boyhood is full of rebukes and disciplines for sins which are only 
the blind effort of the creature to ex.presa ^ rLa.tQSQ which his 


mi does not and cannot understand. So, again, the son that 
to have upheld the old, proud merchant's time-honoured firm, 

* should have been mighty in ledgers and great upon 'Change, 
iJ(s his father's heart by an unintelligible fancy for weaving 
DOS and romances. A father of literary aspirations, baulked of 
ril^es of early education, bends over the cradle of his son with 

* one idea — ^this child shall have the full advantages of regular 
ege training ; and so for years he .battles with a boy abhorring 
3y, and fitted only for a life of out-door energy and bold ad- 
kture — on whom Latin forms and Greek quantities fall and melt 
ikss and useless as snow-flakes on the hide of a buflalo. Then 
> secret agonies— the long years of sorrowful watchings of those 
fttler nurses of humanity, who receive the infant into their 
lorn out of the void unknown, and strive to read its horoscope 
boogh the mists of their prayers and tears I What perplexities ! 
ht confusion ! Especially is this so in a community where the 
Qtai and religious sense is so cultivated as in New England ; and 
ttl, trembling, self-distrustful mothers are told that the shaping 
d ordering not only of this present life, but of an immortal 
stiny, is in their hands. 

On the whole, those who succeed best in the rearing of children 
J the tolerant and easy persons who instinctively follow Nature, 
i accept without much inquiry of whatever she sends ; or that 

smaller class, wise to discern spirits and apt to adopt means to 
ir culture and development, who can prudently and carefully 
in every nature according to its true and characteristic ideal. 
Zephaniah Pennel was a shrewd old Yankee, whose instincts 
ght him from the first that the waif that had been so myste- 
isly washed out of the gloom of the sea into his family, was of 
le different class and lineage from that which might have filled 
•adle of his own, and of a nature which he could not perfectly 
lerstand. So he prudently watched and waited, only using 
raint enough to keep the boy anchored in society, and letting 
I otherwise grow up in the solitary freedom of his lonely sca- 


The boy was from childhood, although smgnlarly attractm, o! 
a moody, fitful, unrestful nature— eager, earnest, but unsteady— 
an.l "inth varying phase's of imprudent firankness, with the mort 
stubborn and unfathomable secretiyeness. He was a creature d 
uiiroasoning antipathies and attractions. As Zephaniah Fennel 
said of liim, he was as full of hitches as an old bureau drawer. 

His peculiar beauty, and a certain electrical power of attrac- 
tion, seemed to form a constant circle of protection and forgiyenea 
around him in the home of his foster-parents ; and great as was 
tho anxiety and pain which he often gave them, they s(Hnehow 
never felt the charge of him as a weariness. 

We left him a boy, beginning Latin with Mr. Sewell, in com- 
pany with little Mara. This arrangement progressed prosperoidf 
for a time, and the good clergyman, all whose ideas of education 
ran through the halls of a college, began to have hopes of tanung 
out a choice scholar. But when the boy's ship of life came into 
the breakers of that channel, narrow and iatricate, which divides 
boyhood from manhood, the difficulties that had always attended 
his guidance and management wore an intensified form. Eov 
much family happiness is wrecked just then and there ! How many 
mothers' and sisters' hearts are broken in the wild and confused 
tossings and tearings of that stormy transition I 

A whole new nature is blindly upheaving itself, with cravings 
and clamourings, which neither the boy himself nor often sur- 
rounding Mends understand. 

A shrewd observer has significantly characterised the period as 
the time when the boy wishes he were dead, and everybody else 
wishes so too. The wretched, half-fledged, half-conscious, anoma- 
lous creature has all the desires of a man, and none of the rights; 
has a double and triple share of nervous edge and intensity in every 
part of his nature, and no definitely perceived objects on which to 
bestow it — and, of course, all sorts of unreasonable moods and 
phases are the result. 

One of the most common signs of this period, in some natures, 
)B iho Jove of contradiction and o^^^KWoxv — ^^\5C\\A ^<$&\\^ tn gp 


eoDtrary to errerything that is commonly received among tlie older 
people. The boy disparages the minister, quizzes the deacon, 
thinks the schoolmaster an ass, and doesn^t believe in the Bible ; 
md seems to be rather pleased than otherwise with the shock and 
flatter that all these announcements create among peaceably- 
disposed grown people. No respectable hen that ever hatched out 
« brood of ducks was more puzzled what to do with them than was 
poor Mrs. Fennel when her adopted nursling came into this state. 
"Was he a boy ? an immortal soul ? a reasonable human being ? or 
only a handsome goblin, sent to torment her ? 

" What shaU we do with him, father? " said she, one Sunday, 
to Zephaniah, as he stood shaving before the little looking-glass in 
tiidr bed-room. " He can't be governed like a child, and he won't 
|o?em himself like a man." 

Zephaniah stopped, and stropped his razor, reflectively. 
"We must cast anchor and wait for day," he answered. 
"Prayer is a long rope with a strong hold." 

It was just at this critical period of life that Moses Fennel was 
drawn into associations which awoke the alarm of all his friends, 
ftiid from which the characteristic wilfulness of his nature made it 
difficult to attempt to extricate him. 

In order that our readers may fully imderstand this part of our 
tistory, we must give some few particulars as to the peculiar 
scenery of Orr's Island, and the state of the country at this time. 
{ The coast of Maine, as we have elsewhere said, is remarkable 
^^1 for a singular interpenetration of the sea with the land, forming, 
Mnid its dense primeval forests, secluded bays, narrow and deep, 
into which vessels might float with the tide, and where they might 
iiestle unseen and unsuspected amid the dense shadows of the over- 
Iianging forest. 

At this time there was a very brisk business done all along the 
coast of Maine in the way of smuggling. Small vessels, lightly 
built and swift of sail, would run up into these sylvan fastnesses 
and there make their deposits and transact their business so a& 
entirely to elude the vigihnce of goverum^ut oiSxcvst^, 


It may seem strange that practices of this kind ahoiildeYerli 
obtained a strong foothold in a community peculiar for its i 
morality and its orderly submiBdon to law ; but in this case, i 
many others, contempt of law grew out of weak and unwo 
legLalation. The celebrated embargo of Je£ferson stopped at 
the whole trade of New England, and condemned her thoi 
ships to rot at the wharres, and caused the ruin of thousat 

The merchants of the country regarded this as a flagrant, 
handed piece of injastice, expressly designed to cripple 
England commerce ; and evasions of this unjust law found • 
where a degree of sympathy, even in the breasts of well-di 
and conscientious people. In resistance to the law, vessels 
constantly fitted out which ran upon trading voyages to th( 
Indies and other places ; and although the practice was pun 
as smuggling, yet it found extensive connivance. Froi 
beginning smuggling of all kinds gradually grew up in th 
munity, and gained such a foothold that even after the re 
the embargo, it still continued to be extensively practised, 
depositories of contraband goods still existed in many of the 
haunts of islands off the coast of Maine. Hid in deep 
shadows, visited only in the darkness of the night, were 
illegal stores of merchandise. And from these secluded 
they found their way, no one knew or cared to say ho) 
houses for miles around. 

There was no doubt that the practice, like all other illegs 
was demoralising to the community, and particularly fatal 
character of that class of bold, enterprising young men who 
be most likely to be drawn into it. 

Zephaniah Pennel, who was made of that kind of sti 
grained, uncompromising oaken timber such as built the 
flower of old, had always borne his testimony at home and i 
against any violations of the laws of the land, however 
under the pretext of righting a wrong or resisting an inji 
and had done what he could in. Viia Tvew^cJowxxWi^ lo^ 


mment officers to detect and break up these unlawful deposi- 
u This exposed him particularly to the hatred and ill-will of 
perators concerned in such affairs, and a plot was laid by a 
f the most daring and determined of them to establish one 
sir depositories on Orr^s Island, and to implicate the family 
mnel himself in the trade. This would accomplish two pur- 
, as they hoped : it would be a mortification and a defeat to 
-a revenge which they coveted ; and it would, they thought, 
3 his silence and complicity by the strongest reasons, 
he situation and characteristics of Orr^s Island peculiarly 
it for the carrying out of a scheme of this kind, and for this 
)6e we must try to give our readers a more particular idea 

be traveller who wants a ride through scenery of more varied 
angular beauty than can ordinarily be found on the shores of 
and whatever, should start some fine clear day along the 
sandy road, ribboned with strips of green grass, that leads 
gh the flat, pitch-pine forests of Brunswick towards the sea, 
! approaches the salt water, a succession of the most beautiful 
)icturesque lakes seems to be lying softly cradled in the arms 
d, rocky, forest shores, whose outlines are ever changing with 
indings of the road. 

t a distance of about six or eight miles from Brunswick he 
8 an arm of the sea, and comes upon the first of the inter- 
; group of islands which beautifies the shore. A ride across 
sland is a constant succession of pictures, whose wild and 
ry beauty entirely distances all power of description. The 
ificence of the evergreen forests — their peculiar air of sombre 
iss — ^the rich intermingling ever and anon of groves of birch^ 
, and oak, in picturesque knots and tufts, as if set for effect 
me skilful landscape gardener — ^produce a sort of strange, 
ly wonder ; while the sea, breaking forth both on the right 
and on the left of the road into the most romantic glimpses, 
to flash and glitter like some strange gem which every 
at ahowa itself through the frame^'woik. oi «ii XkS^ ^8fc\iC\sv'^* 

1 ' 1 THE PKAr.L OF ORr's ISLAK&. 

.« -i 

]]• n* and tlicrc little secluded coves push in from tbe eea, 
ai'DUi d Avhicli lie soft tracts of green meadow-land, hemmed ii 
;iii«l truaifleil by rocky, pine-crowned ridges. In Buch sheltertd 
r})i.>ts may be seen neat white houses, nestling like sheltered dova 
in tlie beautiful solitude. 

When one has ridden nearly to the end of Great Island, y^^sA 
U abc»ut four miles across, he sees rising before him, from the seiij 
a l»old, romantic point of land, uplifting a crown of rich evergw*' 
an<l f( >rost-trecs over shores of perpendicular rock. This is OiA 


It was not an easy matter in the days of our past experience tiF-"* 
piidc a horse and carriage down the steep, wild shores of Gwri' 
Island to the long bridge that connects it with Orr's. TheseM 
of wild seclusion reaches here the highest degree ; and one croBB* 
tlio bridge with the feeling as if genii might have built it, and one 
might be going on it over to fairy-land. From the bridge the path 
rises on to a high granite ridge, which runs from one end of the 
island to the other, and has been called the Devil's Back, with thafc 
superstitious generosity which seems to have abandoned all romantic 
places to so undeserving an owner. 

By the side of this ridge of granite is a deep, narrow chasm, 
running a mile and a half or t^^o miles parallel with the road, and 
grown over with the darkest and most solemn shadows of the 
primeval forest. Here scream the jay and the eagles, and the 
iish-hawks make their nests undisturbed ; and the tide rises and 
falls under black shadowy branches of evergreen, from which de- 
pend long, light festoons of delicate grey moss. The darkness of 
the forest is relieved by the delicate foliage and the silvery trunks 
of the great white birches, which the solitude of centuries ha3 
allowed to grow in this spot to a height and size seldom attained. 

It was this narrow, rocky cove that had been chosen by tlie 
nnuo-^ler Atkinpon and his accomplices iis a safe and secluded resort 
for Ilia operations. He was a seafaring man of Bath, one of tliat 
class who always prefer uncertain and doubtful courses to those 
wliicl) nro safe and reputable, lie \v»a \vo«&ftea.eA. o\ Twa-w-^ <i\ >\\'c»!i 


ilated to make him a hero in the eyes of young men ; 
, free, and frank in his manners, with a fund of humour 
undance of ready anecdote which made his society fasci- 
it he concealed beneath all these attractions a character 
asping, unscrupulous selfishness, and an utter destitution 

now in his seventeenth year, and supposed to be in a 
ty doing well, under the care of the minister, was left 
le and go at his own pleasure, unwatched by Zephaniah, 
LDg operations often took him for weeks from home. 
on hung about the boy's path, engaging him first in 

hunting enterprises; plied him with choice prepara- 
^uor, with which he would enhance the hilarity of their 
s; and finally worked on his love of adventure and 
tient restlessness incident to his period of life to draw 
nto his schemes. Moses lost all interest in his lessons, 
looting them for days at a time — accounting for his 
! by excuses which were far from satisfactory. When 
Id expostulate with him about this, he would break out 
with a fierce irritation. Was he always going to be 
girl's apron-string ? He was tired of study, and tired 
veil, whom he declared an old granny in a white wig, 
' nothing of the world. He wasn't going to college — ^it 
ether too slow for him — he was going to see life, and 
d for himself. 

I life during this time was intensely wearying. A frail, 
jlicate girl of thirteen, she carried a heart prematurely 
the most distressing responsibility of mature life. Her 
Vioses had always had in it a large admixture of that 
and care-taking element which, in some shape or other, 
he affection of woman to man. Ever since that dream of 

when the vision of a pale mother had led the beautiful 

• arms, Mara had accepted him as something exclusively 
with an intensity of ownership that seemed almost to 

• personal identity with his. B\i^ i^V.^ wA ^«^ ^ ^js\^ 


cnjoyod, and Bufforod in him, and yet was conBciolM of a Wgbtf 
nature in herself, by which unwillingly he was often judged and 
condemned. His faults affected her with a kind of guilty pain^ii 
if they were her own; his sins were borne bleeding in her heart m 
silence, and with a jealous watchfulness to hide them from evoy 
eye but hers. She busied herself day and night, interceding and 
making excuses for him, first to her own sensitive moral natoRi 
and then with everybody around, with one or another of whom bi 
was coming into constant collision. She felt at this time a fearfu 
load of suspicion, which she dared not express to a human being. 

Up to this period she had always been the only confidant d 
Moses, who poured out in her ear without reserve all the good an^ 
evil of his nature, and who loved her with all the intensity witi 
which he was capable of loving anything. Nothing so much shoi 
what a human being is in moral advancement as the quality of ii 
love. Moses Fennel's love was egotistic, exacting, tyrannical, an 
capricious — sometimes venting itself in expressions of a pasaona) 
fondness, which had a savour of protecting generosity in them, ai 
then receding to the icy pole of surly petulance. For all thJ 
there was no resisting the magnetic attraction with which in 1 
amiable moods he drew those whom he liked to himself. 

Such people are not very wholesome companions for those ^ 
arc sensitively organised and pre-disposed to self-sacrificing lo 
They keep the heart in a perpetual freeze and thaw, which, like 
American northern climate, is so particularly fatal to plants c 
delicate habit. They could Hve through the hot summer and 
cold wmter, but they cannot stand the three or four months w 
it freezes one day and melts the next-when all the buds arestai 
out by a week of genial sunshine, and then frozen for a fortni| 
But these fitful people are of aU others most engrossing bec« 

rr^ Tn """"' "" '^^^ ^^ "^*^"' theyare just goin; 

did in her o^ ex^i^^^* ^"^^ ^'^'""f "? ^"^'^ ^^^^« ^ 
good-thatshe W^!!". ^' '""' going to do something great 


'y, she ihonght, knew him as she did ; nobody could know how 
<^ and generous he was sometimes, and how frankly he would 
^eas his faults, and what noble aspirations he had ! 
^at there was no concealing from her watchful sense that Moses 
^ beginning to have secrets from her. He was cloudy and 
^y ; and at some of the most harmless inquiries in the world, 
'^Id flash out with a sudden temper, as if she had touched some 
^ epot. 

X^er bed-room was opposite to his ; and she became quite sure 
*^ night after night, while she lay thinking of him, she heard 
^ steal down out of the house, between two and three o'clock, and 
' ^tum till a little before day-dawn. Where he went, and with 
Om, and what he was doing, were to her an awful mystery, and 
^as one she dared not share with a human being. If she 
^ her kind old grandfather, she feared that any inquiry from 
^ would only light as a spark on that inflammable spirit of pride 
^ insubordination that was rising within him, and bring on an 
ttantaneous explosion. Mr. SewelPs influence she could hope 
tie more from ; and as to poor Mrs. Fennel, such communications 
>Uld only weary and distress her without doing any manner of 
od. There was, therefore, only that one unfailing confidant — 
a Invisible Friend — ^to whom the solitary child could pour out 
c heart, and whose inspirations of comfort and guidance never 
1 to come again in return to true souls. 

One moonlight night, as she lay thus praying, her senses, 
irpened by watching, discerned a sound of steps treading under 
r window, and then a low whistle. ' Her. heart beat violently, 
d she soon heard the door of Moses's room unclose, and then the 
I chamber stairs gave forth those inconsiderate creaks and snaps 
it garrulous old stairs always will when anybody is desirous of 
bking them accomplices in a night secret. Mara rose, and un- 
iwing her curtain, saw three men standing before the house, and 
97 Moses come out and join them. Quick as thought she threw 
. her clothes, and wrapping her little form in a dark cloak, with 
hood, followed them oat. She kept at a Bafe^\as!kCfe\^SKscL^ 


tbenif 80 &r back as just to luep them in nght. Tl 
looked back, and seemed to say but little till they appro 
edge of that deep belt of forest which shrouds so large 
of the ialaiid. She harried along, now neaier to them, 
should be lost to yiew in the deep shadows, while the] 
crackling and plunging through the dense nnder-bush. 


It was well for Mara that so much of her life had been 
wild forest rambler. She looked frail as the rays of i 
which slid down through tiie old white-bearded hemlocb 
limbs were agile and supple as steel ; and while the p 
crushing on before, she followed with such lightness, 
slight sound of her movements was entirely lost in 
crackling plunges of the party. Her little heart was b 
and hard ; but could any one have seen her face as it 
then came into a spot of moonshine, they might have se 
in a deadly expression of resolve and determination, 
going after him — ^no matter where — she was resolved to 
and what it was that was thus leading him away, as 
told her, to no good. Deeper and deeper into the a 
the wood they went. 

Mara had often rambled for whole solitary days in • 
forest, and knew all its rocks and dells the whole three m 
long bridge at the other end of the island ; but she '. 
before seen it under the solemn stillness of midnight i 
which gives to the most familiar object such a Strang 
charm. After they had gone a mile into the forest, she 
through the black spruces on her left silver gleams of th 
hear, amid the whirr and sway of the pine -tops, the d; 
ever-restless tide which pushed up the long cove. It y, 
foilj as she could discern with a xapVd |^\wvQft gl Vw ^^^ 

Yian^ TO THB smuggler's sloop. 179' 

ertly versed in the knowledge of every change of the solitary 
are around. 

And now the party began dimbing straight down the rocky 
^, called the " Devil's Back,*' on which they had been waUuDg 
lerto, into the deep ravine where lay the cove. It was a 
unbling, precipitous way— over perpendicular walls of rock, 
Dse crevices formed anchoring places for grand old hemlocks oi 
er birches, and whose rough sides, leathery with black flaps o! 
len, were all tangled and interlaced with thick netted bushes. 
The men plunged down, laughing, shouting, and swearing at 
ir occasional mis-steps ; and, silently as moonbeam or thistle- 
ra, the light-footed shadow went after them. 
She suddenly paused behind a pile of rock, as through an 
sning between two great spruces the sea gleamed out like a 
fit of looking-glass, set in a black frame, and here the child 
ra small vessel swinging at anchor, with the moonlight full on 
slack sails, and she could hear the gentle gurgle and lick of the 
en-tongued waves, as they dashed imder her towards the rocky 

Mara stopped with a beating heart as she saw the company 
king for the sloop. The tide is high, she thought ; will they 
him on board, and sail away with him where she cannot 
ow? What can She do? In an ecstasy of fear, she knelt 
m and asked Grod not to let him go ; to give her, at least, 
more chance to save him. 

For the pure and pious child had heard enough of the words of 
je men, as she walked behind them, to fill her with horror. She 
. never before heard an oath, but there came back from these 
1 coarse, brutal tones, and words of blasphemy, that froze her 
3d with horror; and Moses was going with them! She felt 
lehow as if they must be a company of fiends bearing him to 

For some time she kneeled there, watching behind the rock, 
ile Moses and his companions went on board the little sloop. 

3 bad no fediDg of horror at the londi&eM^ ot 1^<^ Qrir^iSi&i^\k;$<^N 



for her solitary life had made erery woodland thbg dear and 

fiuniliar to her. 

Slie was cowering down in a loose, spongy bed of moss, wbidi 
was all threa'led and embroidered through and through with tb« 
fragrant vines and pale pink blossoms of the Mayflower; and aha 
f^lt its fragrant breath steaming up in the moist moonlight. M 
Bho leancii forward to look through a rocky crevice, her ami 
rested on a bod of thick, brittle white moss she had often gathend 
witli so much admiration ; and a scarlet rock columbine, such u 
bIic delighted to paint, brushed her cheek ; and all these mute &ir 
things seemed to strive to keep her company in her chill suspem 
of watchfulness. 

Two whip-poor-wills, from under the shadows of some eilveiy 
birches, kept calling to each other in melancholy iteration, wMb 
she stayal there still listening, and knowing, by an occasional soaod 
of laughing, or the explosion of some oath, that the men we« 
not yet gone. At last they all appeared again, and came to a 
cleared place among the dry leaves, quite near to the rock whew 
phe was concealed. They brushed away the leaves, and kindled a 
fire, which they kept snapping and crackling by a constant supply 
of green, resinous hemlock branches. 

The red flame danced, and leaped, and snapped through the green 
fuel, and, springing upward in tongues of flame, cast ruddy bronze 
reflections on the old pine trees, with their long branches waving 
with beards of white moss. 

By the firelight Mara could see two men in sailors' dress, with 
pistols in their belts, and the man Atkinson, who she now recol- 
lected as having seen once or twice at her grandfather's. She 
remembered how she had always shrunk from him with a strange 
instinctive dislike — half fear, half disgust— when he had addressed 
her with that kind of free admiration which men of his class often 
feel themselves at liberty to express towards a pretty girl of thir- 
teen. He was a man that might have been handsome, had it not 
been for a certain strange expression of covert wickedness. It was 
MS if some vile evil spirit, walking, ob tVie ^xV^Wc^ ^aw-^^^'O^^Kssv^gi 


irj places, had lighted npon a comely human body, in which he 
bad set np his unclean housekeeping, makiug it look like a fair 
Bumdon defiled by a slovenly owner. 

Mara, as she watched Atkinson^s demeanour with Moses, could 
ddnk only of a loathsome black snake that she had once seen in 
those solitary rocks ; she felt as if his handsome but evil eye were 
dttnning Moses to his destruction. 

"Well, Mo, my boy," she heard him say, slapping him om the 
-Aoolder, " this is something like. We'll have a ' tempus,' as the 
eoD^<9 fellows say. Put down the clams to roast, and I'll mix the 
poncb," he said, setting over the fire a tea-kettle, which they 
kad brought from the ship. After their preparations were finished 
^ they all sat down to eat and drink, and Mara listened with anxiety 
ttd horror to a conversation such as she had never heard or con- 
Mned before. It is not often that women hear men talk in the 
BBciisguised manner which they use among themselves ; but the 
conversation of men of unprincipled lives and low, brutal habits, 
unchecked by the presence of respectable female society, might 
irdi convey to the horror-struck child a feeling as if she were 
listening at the mouth of hell. Almost every word was preceded 
or emphasised by an oath ; and what struck with a death-chill to 
her heart was, that Moses swore too, and seemed to show that 
desperate anxiety to appear au fait in the language of wickedness, 
which boys often do at that age, when they fancy that to be igno- 
rant of vice is a mark of disgraceful greenness. Moses evidently 
was bent on showing that he was not green — ^ignorant of the pure 
ear to which every such word came like the blast of death. 

He drank a great deal, too, and the mirth amongst them grew 
furious and terrific. Mara, horrified and shocked as she was, did 
not, however, lose that intense and alert presence of mind natural 
to persons in whom there is moral strength, however delicate be 
their physical frame. She felt at once that these men were play- 
ing upon Moses, that they had an object in view, that they were 
flattering and cajoling him, and leading him to drink, that they 
miffht work out some ^endish purpose oi t\iQ\x o^rci. "Wi^^ ^s£ssi 


called Atkinson related Btory after story of wild adventttie, in 
'which sudden fortunes had been made by men who, he said, vers 
not afraid to take " the short cut across lots." He told of piratical 
adventures in the West Indies, of the fun of chasing and oyer- 
hauling ships, and gave dazzling accounts of the treasures found 
on board. It was observable that all these stories were told on the 
lino between joke and earnest, as frolics, as specimens of good fan, 
and seeing life. At last came a suggestion — ^What if they should start 
off together some fine day, just for a spree, and try a cruise in tlie 
West Indies, to see what they could pick up? They had anna, 
and a gang of fine, whole-souled fellows. Moses had been tied to 
^la'am PennePs apron -string long enough. "And hark ye, 
Moses," said one of them, ^* thsy say old Pennel has lots of doDan 
in that old sea-chest of his*n. It would be a kindness to him to 
invest them for him in an adventure." 

Moses answered, with a streak of the boy innocence which 
often remains under the tramping of evil men, like lines of green 
turf in the middle of roads — 

" Oh ! Tom don't know Father Pennel ; why, he'd no more 
come into it than " 

A perfect roar of laughter cut short this declaration, and 
Atkinson, slapping Moses on the back, said — 

" By , Mo, you are the jolliest green .dog — ^I shall die a 

laughing of your innocence some day. Don't you see that Pennel's 
money can be invested without asking him ?" 

" Why, he keeps it locked," said Moses. 

" And supposing you pick the lock ? " 

'* Not I, indeed," said Moses, making a sudden movement to rise. 

Mara almost screamed in her ecstacy; but she had sense 
enough to hold her breath. 

" Do you see him, now !" said Atkinson, lying back and holding 
his sides while he laughed and rolled over ; " you can get off any- 
thing on that mujQT— any hoax in the world. Come, come, my 
dear boy, sit down. I was only seeing how wide I could make you 
open those great black eyes of your'H) t\i8A?« q^V**^ 


a'd better take care how you joke with me," said Moses, 
.t look of gloomy determination which Mara was quite 
with of old. It was the rallying effort of a boy who had 
ed the first outworks of virtue to make a stand for the 
and Atkinson, like a prudent besieger after a repulse, 

lie on his arms. 

•egan talking volubly on other subjects, telling stories, and 
songs, and pressing Moses to drink. 

1 was comforted to see that he declined drinking — that he 
loomy and thoughtful, in spite of the jokes of his com- 
i but she trembled to see by the following conversation 
dnson was skiKully and prudently making apparent to 
le extent to which he had him in his power. He seemed 
like an ugly spider skilfully weaving his web around a 
3 felt cold and faint, but within her there was a heroic 

She was not going to faint — she would make herself y< 
—she was going to do something to get Moses out of this 
3ut what ? 

ist they rose. " It's past three o'clock," she heard one of 

ly, Mo," said Atkinson, " you must make tracks for home, 
^on't be in bed when Mother Pennel calls you." 
men all laughed at this joke, as they turned to go on 

n they were gone, Moses threw himself down, and hid his 
his hands. He knew not what pitying little face was 
iown upon him from the hemlock shadows ; what brave 
irt was determined to save him. He was in one of those 
ses of agony that boys pass through when they first awake 
I fun and frolic of unlawful enterprises, to find themselves 
er sin, and feel the terrible logic of evil, which constrains 
pass from the less to greater crime. He felt that he was 
ands of bad, unprincipled, heartless men, who, if he re- 
do their bidding, had the power to expose him. All he 
in doing would come out. His kiud old foster ^^ntA 



irould know it ; Mara would know it ; Mr. Sewell, l^Ca Enuly, 
would know tho secrets of his life that part month. He felt as if 
they were all looking at him now. He had disgraced Hmaelf'— 
had Blink below his education ; had been false to all his own better 
knowledge, and the just expectations of his friends^ living a mean, 
misenible, and dishonourable life. And now the ground was bA 
sliding from under him, and the next plunge might be down a 
precijjice, from which there would be no return. 

AVhat ho had done up to this hour had been done in the 
roystering, inconsiderate gamcsomeness of boyhood. It had beet 
represented to himself only as " sowing wild oats," having " steep 
times," " seeing a little of life," and so on ; but this night he had 
had propositions of piracy and robbery made to him, and had not 
dared to knock down tho man that made them ; had not daied 
at once to break away from his company. He must meet bin 

again ; must go on with him, or . He groaned aloud at tiie 


It was a strong indication of that repressed, considerate haliifc 
of mind which love had wrought in the child, that, when Mara 
heard the boy*s sobs rising in the stillness, she did not, as she 
wished to, rush out, and throw her arms around his neck, and try 
to comfort him. 

But she felt instinctively that she must not do this — she must 
not let him know that she had discovered his secret, by stealing 
after him thus, in the night shadows. She knew how nervously he 
had resented even the compassionate glances she had cast upon 
him, in his restless, turbid intervals during the last few weeks, and 
the fierceness with which he had replied to a few timid inquiries. 
"No ; though her heart was breaking for him, it was a shrewd, wise 
little heart, and resolved not to spoil all by yielding to its first 
untaught impulses. 

She repressed herself, as the mother does who refrains from 
crying out when she sees her unconscious little one on tho verge 
of a precipice. 

When Moses rose, and moodily began walking homeward, she 


followed at a distance. She could now keep farther oil, for she 
knew the way through every part of the forest, and she only 
wanted to k§ep within sound of his footsteps, to make sure he was 
going home. 

When he emerged from the forest into the open moonlight, she 
Bat down in its shadows, and watched him as he walked over the 
open distance between her and the house. He went in, and then 
she waited a little longer for him to be quite retired. She thought 
he would throw himself on the bed, and then she could steal in 
after him. 

So she sat there quite still in the shadows. The grand full moon 
was riding high and calm la the purple sky ; and Harpswell Bay 
on the one hand, and the wide, open ocean on the other, lay all in 
a olyer shimmer of light. There was not a sound, save the plash of 
the tide, now beginning to go out, and rolling and rattling the 
pel)bles up and down, as it came and went ; and, once in a while^ 
the distant, mournful intoning of the whip-poor-wills. There were 
silent, lonely ships sailing slowly to and fro far out to sea, tiurning 
their fair wings now into bright light, and now into shadow, 
as they moved over the glassy surface. Mara could see all the 
houses in Harpswell Neck, and the white church, as clear as in the 
daylight. It seemed to her some strange, unearthly dream. 

As she sat there she thought over her whole little life of thirteen 
years, all full of one thought, one purpose, one love, one prayer, for 
this being, so strangely given to her out of that silent sea, which 
lay so like a still eternity around her ; and she revolved again what 
meant the vision of her childhood. Did it not mean that she was 
to watch over him, and save him from some dreadful danger? 
That poor mother was lying now, silent and peaceful, under the 
turf, in the little graveyard not far off, and she^ Mara, must care 
for her boy. 

A strong motherly feeling swelled out the girl's heart ; she felt 
that she must<t she would, somehow, save that treasure which had 
so mysteriously been committed to her. So, when she thought she 
had given time enough for Moses to be q\\\ct\^ ?c^Q«^\xi\sN&^^*s«v, 


she arc6e and ran with quick footstepe acroBB the moonlit plaiatA . 
the house. \ 

The front door was standing wide open, as was always tlie in- j 
nocont fjEUshion in these regions, with a half angle of moonliglit and | 
shadow lying within its dusky depths. Mara listened a moment- 
no sound — ^he had gone to Ded, then. " Poor boy ! " she said, "I 
hope he is asleep. How he must feel, poor fellow 1 It's all the fadk 
of those dreadful men," said the little dark shadow to heiself, « 
she stole up the stairs past his room, as guiltily as if she were tbe 
sinner. Once the stairs creaked, and her heart was in her moutb; 
but she gained her room, and shut and bolted the door. 

Then she kneeled down by her little white bed, and thanked 
God that she had come in safe, and prayed him to teach her wbst 
to do next. 

She felt chilly and shivering, and crept into bed, and lay ^ 
her great, soft, brown eyes wide open, intensely thinking what A 
should do. 

Should she tell her grandfather ? 

Something instinctively said, No. She felt that the first woi 
from him which showed Moses he was detected would at once set 
him off with those wicked men. '' He would never, never bear 
have this known," she said. *' IMr. Sewell ? Ah I that was worse 
She herself shrunk from letting him know what Moses had beendoin 
She could not bear to lower him so much in his eyes. *' He con 
not make allowances," she thought. *' He is good, to be sure ; I 
he is so old and grave, and doesn't know how much Moses has be 
tempted by these dreadful men ; and then, perhaps, he would t 
Miss Emily, and they never would want Moses to come there a 

" AVhat shall I do ?" she said to herself. " I must get somebc 
to help me, or tell me what to do. I can't tell grandmamma ; 
would only make her ill ; and she wouldn't know what to do a 
more than I. Ah! I know what I will do; I'll tell Capt 
Kittridge ; he was always so kind to me, and he has been to 
&nd seen all sorts of men •, and Wos^ ^otfx, c».\^ ^ xKasScL^^xfes 


e him koow, because the captain is such a funny man, and 
take eyerything so serionsly. Yes, that's it I I'll go right 
to the cove in the morning. God will bring me through — I 
he wiU." 

id the little weary head fell back on the pillow asleep ; and as 
jpt a smile settled over her face — perhaps a reflection from 
;e of her good angel, who always beholdeth the face of our 
• in heaven. 


was so wearied with her night walk, and the agitation she 

en through, that, once asleep, she slept long after the early 

ast hour of the family. 

e was surprised on awakening to hear the slow old clock 

stairs striking eight. 

e hastily jumped up and looked around with a confused 

r, and then slowly the events of the past night came back 

lier like a remembered dream. She dressed herself quickly, 

ent down to find the breakfast things all washed and put 

and ]Mrs. Fennel spinning. 

Vhy, dear heart," said the old lady, '* how came you to sleep 

I spoke to you twice, but I could not make you hear." 

aas Moses been down, grandma' ? " said Mara, intent on the 

lought in her heart. 

rVhy, yes, dear, long ago ; and cross enough he was. That 

)es get to be a trial I But come, dear, I've saved some hot 

for you ; sit down, now, and eat your breakfast." 

ira made a feint of eating what her grandmother, with fond 

isness, would put before her ; and then, rising up, she put on 

:n-bonnet, and started down towards the cove, to find her 


:e queer, dry, lean old captain had been to her all her life like 

iful kobold, or brownie — an unquestioning servant of all her 

biddings. She dared tell him any tbing mlYiOMX. ^^^'swifc ^x 


tfiiAmcfacGdnefli, and she felt Uiat in this trial of hear life hen 
hare in his sea receptacle some odd old amulet or spell that ahi 
be of power to help her through her troubles. InstincUTd| 
avoided the house, lest Sally should sec, and fly out and 8^ 
She took a narrow path through the cedars down to the littiel 
cove, where the old captain worked so merrily ten years agoi 
beginning of our story, and where she found him now with hs 
off, busily planing a board. 

" AVal, now ; if this 'ere don't beat all I " he said, lookin 
and seeing her. " Why, you's looking after Sally, I s'pose? 
up to the house." 

" No, Captain Kittridge, I'm come to see you." 

"You be?" said the Captain; *'I swow if I aint a 
fellow. But what's the matter ? " he said, suddenly obsenrii 
pale face, and the tears in her eyes. *^ Aint nothin' bad hap] 
has there?" 

" Ob, Captain Kittridge, something dreadful, and noboc 
you can help me." 

" Want to know, now ? " said the Captain, with a grave 
*^ well, come here, now, and sit down, and tell me all ab( 
Don't you cry, there's a good girl ! don't, now." 

Mara began her story, and went through with it in a raj 
agitated manner, and the good Captain listened in a fidget 
of interest, occasionally relieving his mind by interjecting 
toll, now ! I swow if that 'ere aint too bad ! " 

When she had finished, he sat rubbing his pantaloon; 
reflectively with his hands. 

"That 'ere's ridiculous conduct in Atkinson; he ough 
talked to," said the Captain ; and then he whistled, and 
shaving in his mouth, which he chewed reflectively. 

" Don't you be a mite worried, Mara," he resumed ; " 
a great deal better to come to me than to go to Mr. Sewell 
grand 'ther either; 'cause, you see, these 'ere wild chaps, 
take things from me that they wouldn't from a church mci 
a minister. Folk's mustn't puW 'em wp V\\Xv too ^\q>\\. ^ ^^sl: 


ind o' flatter *em off. Bat that 'ere Atkinson's too redi- 
for anything ; and if he don't mind, I'll serve him out. I 
i thing or two about him that I shall shake over hia head if 
*t behave. Now, I don't think so much of smugglin' as some 
said the Captain, sinking his voice to a confidential tone ; 
ly don't, now ; but come to goin' off piratin', and tryin* to 
foung boy up torobbin' his best friends, why, there aint no 
' sense in that 'ere — it's pizen mean of Atkinson, and I shall 
a so ; and I shall talk to Moses, too." 
►h, I'm afraid to have you," said Mara, apprehensively. 
ly chick- a-biddy," said the old Captain, " you don't under- 
lie. I aint going at him with no sermons — ^I shall jist talk 

this way : ' Look here^ Moses,' I shall say; 'there's Badger's 
>ing to sail in a fortnight for China, and they want likely 
J abo'rd, and I've got a hundred dollars that I'd like to send 
enture ; if you'll take it and go, why, we'll share the profits.' 

talk like that, you know ; mebbe I shan't let him know 

I know, and mebbe I shall— jist tip him up a wink, you 

-it depends on circumstances ; but bless ye, child, these 'ere 

J aint none of 'em 'fraid o' me ; they know I know the ropes, 


^d can you make that horrid man let him alone?" said 

calculate I can," said the Captain. " S'pect if I's to tell 
son a few things I knows, he'd be for bein' scase in our parts. 
'. han't minded doin' a small bit o' trade, now and then, with 
ere fellows, myself ; but this 'ere" — said the Captain, stopping 
X)king extremely disgusted— " why, it's contemptible — it's 
lous 1 " 

)o you think I'd better tell grandpapa?" 
)on't worry your little head. I'll step up, and have a talk 
Pennel this evening. He knows, as well as I, that there is 
when chaps must be seen to, and no remarks made. Pennel 
. that ar. Why, now. Mis' Kittridge thinks our boys turnfldl 
well, all along of her bringing up, and 1 \&\. \iet MJclw^ ^3«i\ 


ktvpB her sort o* in sperits, ye see ; bat, Lord bless ye, child*, 
lias been times with Job and Sam, and Pass, and Das, and 
ami oil on *em, finally, when, if / hadnt jist pnlledaiope 
and turned a screw there, and said nothin* to nobody, thefd 
bec'n all gone to smash. I never told Mis' Eattridge none o' 
(lidos ; bless yon, 'twonldn't been o* no use. I never told 
neither ; but I jist kind o' worked 'em off, you know, and 
all pretty 'spectable men now, as men go, you know ; not 
Parson Sewcll, but good honest mates and ship-masters— Idod 
niiddlin' people, you know ; it takes a good many o' sich to 
up a world, d'yo see?" 

^' But, oh. Captain Kittridge, did any of them used to wmt 
said !Mara, in a faltering voice. 

"Wal, they did — ^yes, consid'able," said the Captain; 
Roeinf): the trembliug of Mara's lip, he added — " Ef you could 
found this 'ere out any other way, it's most a pity you a hrf' 
him ; 'cause he wouldn't never have let out before you. It to' 
do for gals to hear the fellers talk when they's alone, 'cause feJ* 
— wal, ye see, fellers will be fellers — ^particularly when ihfij^ 
youDg. Some on 'em never gets over it all their lives finally" 

" But, oh, Captain Elittridge, that talk last night wia M 
dreadfully wicked ; and Moses— oh I it was dreadful to W 

" Wal, yes, it was," said the Captain, consolingly ; " butdont 
you cry, and don't you break your poor little heart. I 'xpect hel 
Cv)mo all right, and jine the church one of these days; 'cause there's 
old Pennel, he prays— fact, now — and I think there's consid'aUe in 
some people's prayers, and he's one of the sort ; and you pray, 
too, and I'm quite sure the good Lord must hear you, if ever be 
does anybody. I declare sometimes I wish you'd jist say a good 
word to Ilim for me. I should like to get the hang o' things a 
little better than I do, somehow — ^I reely should. I've giv' up 
swearing years ago ; Mis' Kittridge, she broke me o' that, and now 
I don't never go farther than ' I van,' or * I swow,' or somethin' o' 
that sort. But, you see, I'm old \ Mq«^ ii^ 'iCi>3k\iSL*^but then, h'fi 


31) and Mends, and he'll come all right. Now, you 

ceUaneous budget of personal experiences and friendly 
¥hich the good Captain conyeyed to Mara may possibly 
mgh, my reader ; but the good, ropy, brown man was 
st to console his little friend ; and, as Mara looked at 
} almost glorified in her eyes — he had power to save 
be would do it I 

t home to dinner that day with her heart considerably 
She refrained in a guilty way from even looking at 
was gloomy and moody. But Mara had from Nature 
)wment of that kind of innocent hypocrisy which is 
staple, in the lives of women, who bridge a thousand 
s with smiling unconscious looks, and walk, singing 
ng flowers, over abysses of fear, while their hearts are 
a them. 

3d more volubly than was her wont with Mrs. Pennel, 
T old grandfather ; she laughed, and seemed in more 
pirits ; and only once did she look up and catch the 
of Moses. It had that murky, troubled look that one 
-he eye of a boy when those evil waters which cast up 
Lrb have once been stirred up in his soul. They fell 
ear glance, and he made a rapid, impatient movement, 
t him to be looked at. The evil spirit, in boy or man, 
" touch of celestial temper," and the sensitiveness to 
3 one of the earliest signs of conscious inward guilt. 
IS relieved, as he flung out of the house after dinner, to 
g, dry figure of Captain Kittridge coming up, and 
3S by the button. 

e window she saw the Captain assuming a confidentia[ 
1, and, when they had talked together a few moments, 
ses going with great readiness after him, down the road 

than a fortnight it was settled Moses was to saii for 
Mara WM deep in the preparaliotii fot \^ ^>\\&^v 


Once she would Iiaye felt this departure as the moBb die&i 
trial of her life. Now it seemed to her a deliverance for Um, 
she worked with a cheerful alacrity which seemed to Moses i 
than was proper, considering "he was going away. 

For Moses, like many others of his sex, boy or man, had qn 
settled it in his own mind that the whole love of Mara^s hearl 
to be his, to have and to hold, to use and draw on, when and 
liked. He reckoned on it as a sort of inexhaustible, unooi 
treasure, that was his own peculiar right and property; 
therefore he felt abused at what he supposed was a discloei 
some deficiency on her part. 

" You seem to be very glad to be rid of me," he said t( 
in a bitter tone, one day as she was earnestly busy ii 

Now the fact was, that Moses had been assiduously re 
himself disagreeable to Mara for the fortnight past, by all 8( 
unkind sayings and doings ; and he knew it, too— but yet he 
right to feel very much abused at the thought that she 
possibly want him to be going. 

If she had been utterly desolate about it, and torn he 
and sobbed and wailed, he would have asked what she co 
crying about, and begged not to be bored with scenes ; bi; 
was, this cheerful composure was quite unfeeling. 

Now, pray don't suppose Moses to be a monster of an una 
species ; we take him to be an average specimen of a bo 
certain kind of temperament, in the transition period ( 
Everything is chaos within : the flesh lusteth against the 
and the spirit against the flesh ; and '^ light and darknet 
mind and dust, and passion and pure thoughts, mix and cor 
without end or order. 

He wondered at himself sometimes that he could say sue" 
things as he did to his faithful little friend ; to one whom, af 
he did love and trust before all other human beings Ther 
saying why it is that a man or a boy, not radically destit 
generous comprehensions will often ctxmSCL^ \jat\A]cc^ ?«A \:y 


in whom he both loTes and reveres ; who stands in his 
best hours, as the very impersonation of all that is 

f some evil spirit at times possessed one, and compelled 
words which were felt at the moment to be mean and 
OSes often wondered at himself, as he lay awake at 
he could have said and done the things he had, and 
ly resolved to make it up somehow before he went 
le did not. 

i not say, *'Mara, I have done wrong," though he 
neant to do it, and sometimes sat an hour in her 
ling murky and stony, as if possessed by a dumb spirit, 
3 would get up and fling himself stormily out of the 

ira wondered if he would really go without one kind 
thought of aU the years they had been together — aU 
^tiDgs, and sailings, and fishings, and studies together, 
3 had been her only thought and love. What had 
3r brother ? — the Moses that once she used to know — 
ss, not ill-tempered, and who sometimes seemed to love 
ak she was the best little girl in the world ? Where 
3 to — this friend and brother of her childhood? and 
iver come back ? 

ame the evening before his parting. The sea-chest was 
and packed, and Harass fingers had been busy with 
from more substantial garments down to all those little 
1 nameless conveniences that a woman only knows how 
!. Mara thought certainly she should got a few kind 
)ses looked it over, but he only said, '* All right," and 
that there was a button off one of the shirts. 
)usy fingers soon replaced it, and Moses was annoyed 
hat fell on the button. What was she crying for now ? 
ry well, but he felt stubborn and cruel. Afterwards 
e many a night in his berth, and acted this last scene 
itly. He took Mara in his arms and kissed her; he 


toM her die waa hia life, hia good angel, and that he waa im* 
worthy to kias the hem of her garment ; but the next day, when 
he thought of writing a letter to her, he did not, and the good 
iiiuixl passed away. 

Hoysj do not acquire an ease of expression in letter-writing as 
early us girls, and a voyage to China furnished opportunities few 
ami liir between of sending letters. 

Now and then, through some sailing ship, came a missive, whiA 
h'omed to Manv altogether colder and more unsatisfactory than ft 
\\ ..»ukl have done could she have appreciated the difference between 
a b(»y aud a girl in power of epistolary expression ; for the pow« 
of really representing one's heart on paper, which is one of the W 
sluing llowcrs of early womanhood, is the latest blossom on tta 
alow-growing tree of manhood. 

To do Moses justice, these cold letters were often written wiA 
a choking lump in his throat, caused by thinking over his naDj 
sins against his little good angel ; but then that past account w« 
so long, and had so much that it pained him to think of, that be 
dashed it all off in the shortest fashion, and said to himself, " One 
of these days, when I see her, I'll make it all up." 

No man, especially one that is living a rough, busy, out-of-dooi 
life, can form the slightest conception of the intensity of that vdled 
and secluded life which exists in the heart of a sensitive woman, 
whose sphere is narrow, whose external diversions are few, and 
whose mind, therefore, acts by a continual introversion upon itself. 

They know nothing how their careless words and actions are 
pondered and turned again and again, in weary, quiet hours of 
fruitless questioning. What does he mean by this ? and what did 
he intend by that? while he, the careless buffalo, probably meant 
nothing, and has forgotten what it was, if he ever did. 

]VIan's utter ignorance of woman is, in some sort, an excuse for 

a great deal of unsuspected cruelty which he exercises toward her. 

but hrr'i!^^' ^''''''^ ''''^ ""' ^^"^ opportunities of writing to Moses, 

^ollZ frl? """"' ^"^^ ^^^ constrained by a s^rt of dis- 

ouraged, frosty sense of lonelln^- ^xu^l ^Vc^.\\v.>x.^VV^ Wv. 


liad no earthly right to expect this to be otherwise, took upon 
>a to feel an abused individual, whom nobody loved, whose way 

the world was destined to be lonely and desolate. So wheu 
^ses arrived at Brunswick at the beginning of winter, and came, 

burning with impatience, to the home at Orr's Island, and 
tjid that Mara had gone to Boston on a visit, he resented it as a 
trsonal slight. He might have inquired why she should expect 
XI, and whether her whole life was to be spent in looking out of 
^ window to watch for him. He might have remembered that 

had warned her of his approach by no letter. But no, Mara 
^^ care for him ; she had forgotten all about him ; she was 
kTving a good time in Boston— just as likely as not, with some 
ain of admirers ; and he had been tossing on the stormy ocean, 
lift she had thought nothing of it. How many things he had 
taot to say I he had never felt so good and so affectionate. He 
oold have confessed all the sins of his life to her, and asked her 
lidon; and she was not there I 

Mrs. Fennel suggested that he might go to Boston after her. 
0, he was not going to do that ; he would not intrude on her 
easnres with the memory of a rough, hard-working sailor : he 
as alone in the world, and had his own way to make ; and so best 
i 9,t once up among the lumber men and cut the timber for the 
ip that was to carry Caesar and his fortunes. When Mara was 
formed by a letter from Mrs. Ponnel, expressed in the few brief 
>rds in which that good woman generally embodied her epistolary 
mmunications, that Moses had been home, and gone to Umbagog 
thout seeing her, she felt at her heart only a little closer stricture 
a cold, quiet pain which had become a habit of her inner life. 
He did not love her— he was cold and selfish," said the inner 
►ice ; and faintly she pleaded in answer, " He is a man — he 
\B seen the world — ^and has so much to do and think of, no 


In fact, during the three years that had parted them, the great 
lange of life had been consummated in both— they biwl ^wtol. 
jr and girl, they would meet man and "womwi^ ^».^ ^'^ *tos^. '^'^ 


this meeting had been annoanoed. And all thia isthelusUrfof 
that Bigh — BO y&j quiet, that SaDj Kittridge never checked tie 
rattling flow of her conTeraation to ohaerre it. 


We have in the last two or three chapters bronght up the bistcif j 
of our characters to the time when our story opens — ^when Hflj 
and Sally Kittridge were discussing the expected return of Moflek 

Sally was persuaded by Mara to stay and spend the night wiA \ 
her, and <fuf, without much fear of what her mother would if J 
when she returned ; for though Mrs. Kittridge still made 
demonstrations of authority, it was quite evident to every one 
the handsome grown-up girl had got the sceptre into her owl 
hands, and was reigning in the full confidence of being, cmia^ 
or another, able to bring her mother into all her views. So SaSf 
Btaycd — ^to have one of those long night talks in which girls delicti 
in the course of which all sorts of intimacies and confidences thit 
Khun the daylight open like the night-blooming cereus in strango 
Bucccssions. One often wonders by daylight at the things one sajB 
very naturally in the dark. 

So the two girls talked about Moses, and Sally dilated upon bis 
handsome, manly air, the one Sunday that he had appeared in 
Harpswell meeting-house. 

" Ho didn't know me at all, if you'll believe me," said Sally. 
" I was standing with father when he came out, and he shook 
hands with him, and looked at me as if I'd been an entire 

" I'm not in the least surprised," said Mara ; " you've grown 
so, and altered." 

" Well, now, you'd hardly know him, Mara. He is a man— a 
real man— everything about him is diflferent. He holds up his 
head in such a proud way. Well, he always did thaU when he 
was a boy ; but when he speaks, he has such a deep voice I Hon 
boys do alter in a year or two I ^ 


** Do you think I have altered much, Sally ? " said Mara ; " at 
1st, do you think liQ would think so? " 

** Why, Mara, you and I have been together so much, I can't 
U. We don't notice what goes on before us every day. I really 
ould like to see what Moses Fennel will think when he sees you. 
t any rate, he can't order you about with such a grand air as ho 
ied to when you were younger." 

^ I think sometimes he has quite forgotten about me," said 

" Well, if I were you, I should put him in mind of myself by 
le or two little ways," said Sally. "I'd .plague him and tease 
m — ^I'd lead him such a life that he couldn't forget me — that's 
tiat I would." 

** I don't doubt you would, Sally, and he might like you all the 
itter for it ; but, you know, that sort of thing isn't my way. 
sople must act in character." 

" Do you know, Mara," said Sally, " I always thought Moses 
i8 hateful in his treatment of you. Now, I'd no more marry that 
low than I'd walk into the fire ; but it would be a just punish- 
!nt for his sins to have to marry me. Wouldn't I serve him out, 
ough I " 

With which threat of vengeance on her mind, Sally Kittridge 
med over and fell asleep, while Mara lay awake, pondering and 
mdering if Moses would come to-morrow, and what he would 

like if he did come. 

The next morning, as the two girls were wiping breakfast dishes 
a room adjoining the kitchen, a step was heard on the kitchen 
K)r, and the first that Mara knew, she found herself lifted firom 
e floor in the arms of a tall, dark-eyed young man, who was 
ssing her just as if he had a right to. She knew it must be 
!oees ; but it seemed strange as a dream, for all she had tried to 
lagine it beforehand. 

He kissed her over and over ; and then, holding her off at arm's- 
ngth, said, " Why, Mara, you have grown to be a beauty ! " 



• Ami what waa she, I*d like to know, when you went away, 
^Ir. Moses?" said Sally, who could not long keep out of a con- 
vonsiition. " She was handsome, when you were only a great ugly 


" Tliauk you, ^lifis Sally,*^ said Moses, making a profbundbov. 

*• Thank me for what ?" said Sally, with a toss. 

" For your intkiuation that I am a handsome young man nov 
b-aid Moses, sitting with his arm round Mara, and her 
in his. 

And in truth he was as handsome now, for a man, as he was in 
the promise of his early childhood. AU the oafishness and smly 
awkwardness of the half- boy period was gone; his great black ey« 
were clear and confident ; his dark hair, clustering in short q\A 
round his well-shaped head ; his black lashes, and fine form, and 
a certain confident ease of manner, set him off to the greatofc 

!Mara felt a particular dreamy sense of strangeness at tliii 
brother, who was not a brother — this Moses, so different from the 
one she had known. The very tones of his voice, which, when he 
kft, had the uncertain, cracked notes which indicate the unformed 
man, were now mellowed and settled. Mara regarded him shyly as 
lie talked — blushed uneasily, and drew away from his arm aromicl 
her, as if this handsome, self-confident young man were being too 
familiar. In fact, she made apology to go out into the other room 
and call Mrs. Fennel. 

Moses looked after her as she went with admiration. " What 
a little woman she has grown 1 " he said, naively. 

"And what did you expect she would grow?" said Sally. 
" You didn't expect to find her a girl in short clothes, did you?" 

" Not exactly. Miss Sally," said Moses, turning his attention 
to her ; " and some other people are changed too." 

" Like enough," said Sally, carelessly. " I should think so, 
fince somebody never spoke a word to me the Sunday he was at 

" Oh I you remember that, do you ?— on my word, Sally '* 


^ Miss Eittridge, if you please, sir,'' said Sall7« torning round 

h the air of an empress. 

"Well, then, Miss Eattridge,** said Moses, making a bow. 

ow let me finish my sentence. I never dreamed who you were.** 

" Compb'mentary," said Sally, pouting. 

" "Well, hear me through," said Moses ; " you had grown so 

dsome, Miss Eittridge.'' 

" Oh, that, indeed! I suppose you mean to say I was a fright 

jn you left." 

" Not at all, not at all," said Moses ; " but handsome things 

r grow handsomer, you know." 

" I don't like flattery, Mr. Fennel," said Sally. 

" I neyet flatter, Miss Eittridge," said Moses. 

Our young gentleman and young lady of Orr's Island went 

)ugh with this customary little lie of civilised society with as 

di gravity as if they were practising in the court of Versailles 

16 looking out from the corner of her eye to watch the effect of 

words, and he laying his hand on his heart in the most edifying 

dty. They perfectly understood one another. 

'' But," says the reader, " it seems to me Sally Kittridge docs 

ihe talking." 

So she does — so she always will ; for it is her nature to be 

;ht, noisy, and restless ; and one of these girls always ovcr- 

vs a timid and thoughtful one, and makes her, for the time, 

a dim and ^ed, as does rose colour when put beside scarlet. 

Sally was a bom coquette. It was as natural for her to want 

lirt with every man she saw, as for a kitten to scamper after a 

-ball. Does the kitten care a fig for the pin-ball, or the dry 

es which she whisks, and frisks, and runs round and round 

r ? No ; it's nothing but kittenhood — every hair of her fur is 

e with it ; her sleepy green eyes, when she pretends to be dozing, 

full of it ; and though she looks wise a moment, and seems 

Ived to be a discreet young cat, let but a leaf wag, off she goes 

in, with a frisk and a rap. 

So, though Sally had scolded and flounced about Moses' in- 


attention to Mara in advance, aha contrived, even in to fii* 
iuterview, to keep him talking with nobody but herself; wA 
because fiho wanted to draw him from Mara, or meant to-w* 
because she cared a pin for him, but because it was her natai^ 
as a ixbiky young cat. 

And Moaea let himself be drawn, between bantering andc(» 
tradicting, and jest and earnest, at some moments aknost to forg*j 
that Mara was in the room. 

She took her sewing, and sat with a pleased smile, sometin*! 
breaking into the lively flow of conversation, or eagerly appeaki 
to by both parties to settle some rising quarrel. 

Once, as they were talking, Moses looked up, and saw Maiw 
bead as a stray sunbeam, falling upon the golden hair, seemed iil 
make a halo round her face. Her large eyes were fixed upon m 
with an expression so intense and penetrative, that he felt a sort 
of uneasiness. 

" What makes you look at me so, Mara ? " he said, suddenly. 
A bright fliish came into her cheek as she answered — 
'I I didn't know I was looking. It all seems so strange to me. 
I am trying to make out who and what you are." 

"It's not best to look too deep," Moses said, laughing, but witi 
a slight shade of uneasiness. 

When Sally, late in the afternoon, declared that " she must g 
home, she couldn't stay another minute," Moses rose to go with he 
** What are you getting up for? " she said to Moses, as he to( 
his hat. 

'\To go home with you, to be sure." 
"Nobody asked you to," said Sally. 
*' I'm accustomed to asking myself," said Moses. 
'' Well, I suppose I must have you along," said Sally. " Fat 
will be glad to see you, of course." 

''You'll be back to tea, Moses," said Mara, *'will you n 
GrancHather will be home, and want to see you." 

littlei)uJix.ess'tr,eUl ^^^V"'^"^^^"^^'" '^^ ^'^''' " ^ ^^^ 
^ settle with CapUm KaUtVA^'^." 


ses, howeyer, did slay at tea with Mrs. Kittridge, who 
ously at him through the bows of her black horn spec- 
ig heard her liege lord observe that Moses was a smart 
id done pretty well in a money way. 
ne he to stay? Sally told him every other minute to 
jn, when he had got fairly out of the door, called him 
him that there was something she had heard about 
[oses, of course, came back, wanted to know what it 
ildn't be told — ^it was a secret ; and then he would be 
and reminded that he promised to go straight home ; 
hen he had got a little farther on his way, she called 
second time, to tell him that he would be very much 
he knew how she found it out, &c. &c., till at last, tea 
, there was no reason why he shouldn't have a cup— 
s sober moonrise before he turned his face homeward. 
bat girl ! " he said to himself ; " don^t she know what 
though? " 

ir hero was mistaken. Sally never did know what she 
-had no plan or purpose more than a blackbird, and 
was gone, laughed to think how many times she had 
>me back. 

jonfound it alll" said Moses, "I care more for our 
;han a dozen of her, and what have I been fooling all 
r? Now Mara win think I don't love her, and all 

fact, our young gentleman rather set his heart on the 
) was going to make when he got home. It is flatter- 
1, to feel one's power over a susceptible nature ; and 
mbering how entirely and devotedly Mara had loved 
}ugh childhood, never doubted but he was the sole 
' imcounted treasure in her heart, which he could 
is leisure, and use as he pleased, 
lot calculate for one force which had grown up in the 
between them, and that was the power of womanhood. 
know the intensity of that kind oi \>T\'^ft '^Vsl^Ss^^^ 


very life of the female nature, and which is most Tivid and 
vigcTOUs in the most timid and retiring. 

Our little Mara was tender, self-devoting, humble, religioos, 
but she was woman after all, to the tips of her fingers; quick to 
feel slights, and determined, with the intensest determinatioD, thttk 
no man should wrest from her one of those few humble rights aai 
privileges which Nature allows to woman. 

Something swelled and trembled in her when she felt tb 
confident pressure of that bold arm around her waist, like tki 
instinct of a wild bird to fly. Something in the deep, nud|f 
voice, the determined, self-confident air of manhood, aroused I 
vague feeling of defiance and resistance in her, which she ooiill 
scarcely explain to herself. Was he to assume a right to her ii 
this way wiUiout even asking? 

"When he did not come home to tea, nor long after, and Mil 
Fennel and her grandfather wondered, she laughed and said gaily, 
" Oh, he knows he'll have time enough to see twc / Sally seemB 
more like a stranger." 

But when Moses came home after moonrise, determined to 
go and console Mara for his absence, he was surprised to hear the 
sound of a rapid and pleasant conversation, in which a masculine 
and feminine voice were intermingled in a lively duet. 

ComiDg a little nearer, he saw Mara sitting knitting in the 
doorway, and a very good-looking young man seated on a stone at 
her feet, with his straw hat flung on the ground, while he yns 
looking up into her face, as young men often do into pretty faces 
seen by moonlight. 

Mara rose, and introduced Mr. Adams, of Boston, to Mr. Moses 

Moses measured the young man with his eye, as if he could 
have shot him with a good-will; and his temper was not at all 
bettered as he observed that he had the easy air of a man of fashion 
and culture, and learnt, by a few moments of the succeeding con- 
versation, tliat the acquaintance had commenced during Mara's 
winter visit in Boston. 


ras BtayiDg a day or two at Mr. Sewell^s," lie said, care- 
and the night was so fine I couldn^t resist the temptation 

fts now Moses* turn to listen to a conyersation in which he 
ar little part, it being about persons, places, and things 
ar to him ; and, though he could give no earthly reason 
conversation was not the most proper in the world, yet 
L that it made him angry. 

he pauses Mara inquired, prettily, how he found the 
les, and reproyed him playfully for staying, despite his 
to come home. 

3S answered, with an eflfort to appear easy and playful, that 
IS no reason, it appeared, to hurry on her account, since 
been so pleasantly engaged. 

lat is true,^' said Mara, quietly ; ^^ but then grandpapa and 
imma expected you, and they have gone to bed, as you 
ley always do after tea." 
1^*11 keep till morning, I suppose," said Moses, rather 

1, yes ! But then, as you had been gone two or three 
naturally they wanted to see a little of you at first." 
stranger now joined in the conversation, and began talking 
Oies about his experiences in foreign parts, in a manner 
lowed a man of sense and breeding. 
» had a jealous fear of people of breeding — an appre- 
lest they should look down on one whose life had been laid 
le course of their conventional ideas, and therefore, though 
sufficient ability and vigour of mind to acquit himself to 
ge in this conversation, it gave him all the while a secret 


r a few moments he rose up moodily, and saying that he 
r much fatigued, he went into the house to retire. 
Adams rose to go also, and Moses might have fdt in a 
iristian fr^une of mind had he listened to the last words of 
rersation between him and Mara, 


** Do you remain long in Harpswell ? " she asked. 

** That depends on drcomstanceB," he replied. ** If I 
I be permitted to visit you ? " 

** As a friend— yes,** said Mara ; ^ I eihaU always be 1 
see yon." 

"No more?" 

" No more,'* replied Mara. 

" I had hoped," he said, " that you would re-conmder." 

"It is impossible," said she; and soft voices can proi 
that word impossible in a very feteful and dedsive manner. 

" Well, God bless you, then, Miss Lincoln," he said, am 

Mara stood in the doorway, and saw him loose his boat 
its moorings, and float off in the moonlight, with a long tn 
silver sparkles behind it. 

A moment after, Moses was looking gloomily over her sho 

" Who is that puppy?" he said. 

" He is not a puppy, but a very fine young man," said M 

" Well, that very fine young man, then?" 

" I thought I told you. He is a Mr. Adams, of Boston, 
distant connection of the Sewells. I met him when I was v 
at Judge Sewell's, in Boston." 

" You seemed to be having a very pleasant time together. 

" We were," said Mara, quietly. 

" It's a pity I came home as I did. Fm sorry I inter 
you," said Moses, with a sarcastic laugh. 

" You didn't interrupt us ; and he had been here alm( 

Now Mara saw plainly enough that Moses was displeasi 
hurt ; and, had it been in the days of her fourteenth summ 
would have thrown her arms around his neck, and said, " 1^ 
don't care a fig for that man, and I love you better than 
world." But this the young lady of seventeen would not 
she wished him good night, very prettily, and pretended not 
^nj^thiDg about it. 


was as near being a saint as limnan dust ever is ; but she 
oman-saint, and therefore may be excused for a little 
indictiyeness. She was, in a merciful way, rather glad 
es had gone to bed dissatisfied — rather glad that he did 
' what she might have told him — quite resolved that he 
>t know at present. Was he to know she liked nobody 
Eis him? Not he I unless he loved her more than all the 
td said so first. Mara was resolved upon that. He might 
he liked — ^flirt with whom he liked— come back as late as 
i ; never would she, by word or look, give him reason to 


issed rather a restless and uneasy night on this return to 

roof which had sheltered his childhood. 

s life past, and all his life expected, seemed to boil, and 

id ferment in his thoughts, and to go round and round 

ceasing circles before him. 

J was, par excellence, proud, ambitious, and wilful — three 

aerally supposed to describe positive vices of the mind, 

ih, in fact, are only the misapplication of certain very 

portions of our nature, since one can conceive all three to 

an immensely in the scale of moral being, simply by being 

io right objects. 

ho is too proud ever to admit a mean thought, who is 

I only of ideal excellence, who has an inflexible will only 

ursuit of truth and righteousness, may be a saint and a 

Vioses was neither saint nor hero, but an undeveloped, 
oung man, whose pride made him sensitive and restless ; 
ibition was fixed on wealth and worldly success ; whose 
J was, for the most part, a blind determination to compass 
points, with the leave of Providence or without. There 
rod in his estimate of life, and a sort of secret and un- 


suspected detenninatioii, at the bottom of his lieart, that for 
there should be none. 

lie feared religion^ firom a suspicion which he entertsdned 
it might hamper some of his future schemes. He did not 
j)iit liimsclf under its rules, lest he might find them, in some 
time, inconveniently strict. With such determinations and f( 
thu Bible was necessarily an excessively uninteresting book to 
lie never read it, and satisfied himself with determining, in a 
>vay, that it was not worth reading ; and, as was the custom 
many young men at that period in America, announced himeetf 
Hoo])tic, and seemed to value himself not a little on the distini 

Pride in scepticism is a peculiar distinction of young men. 
takes years and maturity to make the discovery that the power 
faith is nobler than the power of doubt, and that there 1^.1 
celestial wisdom in the ingenuous propensity to tnut, which bdoipi 
to simple and honest natures. Elderly sceptics generally legsA 
their unbelief as a misfortune. 

Not that Moses was, after all, without " the angel in hiB-' 
He had a good deal of the susceptibility to poetic feeling; tbB 
power of vague and dreamy aspiration ; the longing after the good 
and beautiful, which is God's witness in the souL A noble senti- 
ment in poetry, a fine scene in Nature, had power to bring tears Id 
liis great, dark eyes, and he had, under the influences of soiil 
tilings, brief inspired moments, in which he vaguely longed to d" 
or be something grand or noble. 

But this, however, was something apart firom the real purp« 
of his life — a sort of voice crying in the wilderness, to which 1 
gave little heed. Practically, he was determined, with all h 
might, to have a good time in this life, whatever another migl 
be, if there were one, and that he would do it by the strength' 
his right arm. Wealth he saw to be the lamp of Aladdin, whi< 
commanded all other things; and the pursuit of wealth wa 
therefore, the first step on his programme. 

As for plans of the heart and domestic Ufe^ Moses was one 
tliat verjr common class who have "ovot^ ^e^Vtci \o \>Qi Vss^ ^^s 



of loving. His cravings and dreams were not for somc- 
.y to be devoted to, bat for somebody who should be devoted to 
• and, like most people who possess this characteristic, he mis- 
it for an affectionate disposition. 
Now, the chief treasure of his heart had always been his little 
>, Mara, chiefly from his conviction that he was the one ab- 
'long thought and love of her heart. Ho had never figured life 
\ lumself otherwise than with Mara at his side — his unquestion- 
:, devoted fnend. Of course, he and his plans, Lis ways and 
its would ever be in the future, as they always had been, her 
^" These sleeping partners in the interchange of affection, whc 
L^pport one heart with a basis of uncounted wealth, and leave one 
to come and go, and buy and sell, without exaction or inter- 
are a convenience certainly, and the loss of them in any 
is like the sudden breaking of a bank in which all oue*s de- 
PoritB are laid. It had never occurred to Moses how and in what 
Opacity he should always stand banker to the whole wealth of 
love that there was in Mara^s heart, and what provision he should 
l^kakd on his part for returning this incalculable debt. 

But the interview of this evening had raised a new thought in 
Ikig mind. Mara, as he saw that day, was no longer a little girl in 
a pink sun-bonnet ; she was a woman — a little one, it is true, but 
Qvery inch a woman ; and a woman invested with a singular 
and poetic charm of appearance, which, more than beauty, has the 
power of awakening feeling in the other sex. 

He felt that himself, in the experience of that one day ; that 
there was something subtle and veiled about her, which set the 
imagination at work ; that the wistful, plaintive expression of her 
dark eyes, and a thousand httle shy and tremulous movements of 
her feuse, affected him more than the most brilliant of Sally Kit- 
tridge's sprightly sallies. Yes, there would be people falling in 
love with her fast enough, he thought ; '* even here, where Bhe i.^ 
as secluded as a pearl in an oyster-shell, it seems means are fouiul 
to come after her ; ** and then, aU the lo\Q o^ W \i<^»s:\>^ \X^ 

:.:■ "hr- 

t .. 

- * r-.r iiJiKL or 01:2 5 I5LA3cx>. 

»> :.. T ■: -:!>?, ir:«~":i !:t? si^rie os? else, as he knew she conld,iriik 
": ■:*•-: 1:. ^ 5; _'. ir. i n:i.i azi 5TTtr.r:h. When he thouglit of tlffli 
;: :.::.•: :e". r.:- n:z?':i s*;: w: .:!i if ose were tnmed out of a¥Mn, 
f . ..: ^ i: \r:::.f:i': :-:o a "b'-^ik Pf^ember siorm. What Bbodldia 

:: :ia: ir-inr-:. tt':::;*" he Lii t&ken most for granted in all Mi 
T." ..h: : :.5 :f lifr. si.-i"! ?aiif-r:lT be fc-and to belong to another? 

^Nl:- TiTis ill? frII.-T ib^i serine*! so free to visit her, and wtt 
:.:. : T"issi->! c»r:^..-:-n the::: ? Was Mara in lore with him, or g(n| 
r Tbrre is 1:3 saying how the consideration of this qucBtifli 

":.:.L?f*.i. ::: ir.r rifrc's opinion, both her beanty and afl herote |' 
£■"■:•: : -Jil::::-?. S::;h a brave little heart : such a good, clear litfi 
:.•: :. i : a::i s":: :h a TTrrrv hani and foot ! She was alwavs so eh* 
fv/.. 5.? "ZLsvl^-:.. c.:. cevoi-^i! When had he ever seen her angi^ 
cx:- j: wh:-n sh-: Lid taiea up some childish quarrel, and fi»|^ 
f r him iik-? a l:::'e Sparian? *' Then she is pions, too— she iM 
b:::: rrli^: : u*.'* :hough: oar hero, who, in common with manymd 
jrf<>ir.g sof-ptioism for their own particular part, placed a giot 
V..*.'.:- 01: rrlipija in that unknown future person whom theyirt 
f :. '. . f .:lesijr-:;.:ii: J in advance as *' my wife.'* Yes, Moses mearf 
l.'.< wife «bo.:M be pious, and pray for him, while he did as 1m 
1 !.:^>-:-^.. *• Xow. there's that little witch of a Sally Kittridge," 1« 
-iSl to Limself ; *' I wouldn't have such a girl for a wife — ^nothing 
to li^r but foam aud frisk. Xo heart more than a bob-o'-link- 
tut isn't sho amuainir? By George! isn't she though ? 

'• But." thought Moses, " it's time I settled this matter, who ia 
to be my wife. I won't marrj' till I'm rich — that's flat. My ^"iffi 
isn't to rub and grub, so at it I must go to raise the wind. I 
wf 'iider if old Sewell really does know anything about my parents? 
^liss Emily would have it that there was some mystery that he had 
the key of : but I never could get anything from him : he always 
put me off in such a smooth way that I could not tell whether he 
did or he didn't. But now, supposing I have relations — ^family 
connections — then who knows but there may be property coming 
to me ? That^s an idea worth looking after ^ surely." 


e's no saying with what viyidncss ideas and images gi) 

one's wakeful brain when the midnight moon is making 

shadow of your window-sash with panes of light on your 

floor. How vividly we all have loved and hated, and 

and hoped and feared, and desired and dreamed, as we 

id turned to and fro such wakeful, still nights I 

le stillness the tide was plainly heard as the dash over one 

iQ island replied to the dash on the other side in mournful 

, and Moses began to remember all the stories gossips had 

of— how he had been floated ashore there, like a fragment 

al seaweed borne landward by a great gale. He positively 

d at himself that he had never thought of it more ; and 

) he meditated, the more mysterious and inexplicable he 

hen he had heard Miss Roxy once speaking something 

bracelet — he was sure he had ; but afterwards it was 

ip, and no one seemed to know anything about it when he 

. But in those days he was a boy — ^he was nobody ; now, 

, young man. He could go to Mr. Sewell, and demand as 

b a fair answer to every question he might ask. If ho 

SIS was quite likely — ^that there was nothing to be known, 

i would be thus far settled ; he should trust only to his 


.r as the state of the young man's finances were concerned, 
. be considered, in those simple times and regions, an aus- 
)egiDniDg of life. The sum intrusted to him by Captain 
;e had been more than doubled by the liberality of Zeph^v 
inel, and Moses had traded upon it in foreign ports with 
ad energy that brought a very fair return, and gave him, 
yes of the shrewd, thrifty neighbours, the prestige of a 
lan who was marked for success in the world, 
lad already formed an advantageous arrangement with his 
iher and Captain Kittridge, and others, by which a ship 
6 built which he should command, and thus the old Satur- 
moon dream of their childhood be fulfilled. As he thought 
ssre arose a picture in his mind of Maxa.^ mVJa. \ksat ^jS^^^s*. 


hair^ and phuutive cyoB, and little white hands, reigning, 
(jocen in the captain^s cabin, with a sort of wish to car 
and make sure that no one else ever i^oald get her from 
But these midnight dreams were all sobered down by 
matter-of-fact beams of the morning son, and nothing 
of inunediatc definite purpose except the resolve, wl: 
strongly upon Moses as he looked across the blue band 
swell bay, that he would go that mpming and have a 


Miss Roxy Toothacre was seated by the windows oi 
" keeping-room," where Miss Emily Sewell sat on every 


Around her were the insignia of her power and s 
big tailor^s goose was heating between Miss Emily *s b 
fire-irons, and her great pincushion was by her side, bri 
l)ins of all sizes, and with broken needles, thriftily mad 
by heads of red sealing-wax, and with needles threade 
varieties of cotton, silk, and linen. Her scissors hun^ 
by her side ; her black bombazette work-apron was on 
expression of her iron features was that of deep respond 
she was making the minister a new Sunday vest I 

The good soul looks not a day older than when we I 
years ago : like the grey, weather-beaten rocks of her nj 
her strong features had an unchangeable identity, beyo 
anything fair and blooming. There was, of course, no 
a grey streak in her stiff, uncompromising mohair friz< 
still pushed up her cap-border bristlingly as of old ; an 
high winds and bracing atmosphere of that rough coast ] 
an admirable state of preservation. 

Miss Emily had here and there a white hair amon 
pretty brown ones, and looked a little thinner ; but • 
bright ffpot of bloom on each cheeV waa tKeTe^ v^x. ^ oC ^ 

kosES VISITS Mr. sewell. 211 

3 of yord, sbe was thinking of her brother, and filling her 
bead with endless calculations, to keep him looking fresh and 
stable, and his housekeeping comfortable and easy, on very 
d means. She was now officiously and anxiously attending 
iss Roxy, who was in the midst of the responsible operation 
. should conduce greatly to thia end. 

Does that twist work well?" she said, nervously ; " because I 
e I've got some other up-stairs in my India box." 
iss Roxy surveyed the article ; bit a fragment off, as if she 
b to taste it ; threaded a needle, and made a few cabalistical 
es, and then pronounced, ex caihedrd^ that it would do. Miss 
7 gave a sigh of relief. After buttons, and tape, and linings, 
arious other items had been also discussed, the conversation 
L to flow into a general channel. 

Did you know Moses Fennel had got home from Umbagog?" 
kliss Roxy. 

Yes; Captain Kittridge told brother so this morning. I 
er he doesn't call over to see us." 

Your brother took a sight of interest in that boy," said Miss 
. " I was saying to Ruey this morning, that if Moses Fennel 
lid turn out well, he ought to have a large share of the credit." 
Irother always did feel a peculiar interest in him. It was 
a strange Frovidence that seemed to cast in his lot among 
aid Miss Emily. 

As sure as you live, there he is a-coming to the front door," 
yiiss Roxy. 

Dear me !" said Miss Emily, " and here I have on this old 
. chintz ! Just so sure as one puts on any old rag, and thinks 
iy will come, company is sure to call." 
Law ! Fm sure I shouldn't think of calling Mm company," 
Miss Roxy. 

L rap at the door put an end to this conversation, and very 

Miss Emily introduced our hero into the little sitting-room, 

le midst of a perfect stream of apologies relating to her old 

and the littered condition of the apartment ; for Miss Emily 


held to the doctrine of those who coDsider any sign of human c 
cupation and existence in a room as being disorder. 

** Well, really," she said, after she had got Moses seated by tl 
fire, ^* how time does fly, to be sure ! It don^t seem more than ya 
terday since you used to come with your Latin books ; and noi 
here you are a grown man ! I must run and tell Mr. Sewell— )i 
will bo so glad to see you." 

Mr. ScwcU soon appeared firom his study, in morning gown and , 
slippers, and seemed heartily responsive to the proposition wbidi \ 
Mosos soon made to him to have some private conversation vitk 
him in his study. 

^^ I declare!" said Mi^ Emily, as soon as the study door In) | 
closed upon her brother and Moses. " 'What a handsome yooqf 
man he is! and what a beautiful way he has with himl— «od5- 
fercntial ! A great many young men now-a-days seem to tifflk 
nothing of their minister; but ho comes to seek advice— Toy 
proper. It isn't every young man that appreciates the privileged 
having elderly friends. I declare, what a beautiful couple he ssA 
Mara Lincoln would make ! Don't Providence seem in a pecuBtf 
way to have designed them for each other? " 

** I hope not," said Miss Roxy, with her grimmest expression. 

"You don't I Why not?" 

"I never hked him," said Miss Roxy, who had poeaesBed 
herself of her great heavy goose, and was now thumping and 
squeaking it emphatically on the press-board, somewhat in this 
fashion : — 

" She's a thousand times too g#od for Moses Pennel — (thunap). 
I never had no faith in him — (thump). He's dreffle onstiddy— 
— (thump). He's handsome, but he knows it — (thump). He 
won't never love nobody as much as he does himself '* — (thump, /or- 
tissimo con spirito), 

'' AVell, really now. Miss Roxy, you mustn't always remember 
the sins of his youth. Boys must sow their wild oats. He waB 
unsteady for a while, but now everybody says he's doing well. 
And as to his knowing he's handsome^ wi^ «!X\. V^«X.^\(Sj3oJt«ft as 

MISS Emily's secret love of ROMAxcixa. 213 

^ does. See how polite and deferential he was to us all this 
criming — ^and he spoke so handsomely to you I " 

"I dont want none o' his politeness," said Miss Roxy, in- 
^^rably ; " and as to Mara Lincoln, she might have better than 
i^n any day. Mis' Badger was a-tellin' Captain Broad Sunday 
C^on that she was very much admired in Boston." 

" So she was," said Miss Emily, bridling. ** I never reveal 
^crets, or I might tell something ; but there has been a young 
Ian . But I promised not to speak of it, and I shan't." 

*' If you mean Mr. Adams," said Miss Roxy, " you needn't 
^orry about keepin' that secret, 'cause that 'ere was all talked over 
tween meeting a Sunday noon ; for Mis' Kittridge, she used tc 
enow his aunt Jerushy — ^her that married Solomon Peters ; and 
Mft' Captain Badger, she says that he has a very good property, 
Bodis a professor in the old South Church in Boston." 

" Dear me," said Miss Emily, ** how things do get about ! " 

" People will talk ; there ain't no use trying to help it," said 
k[iss Roxy ; *' but it's strongly borne in on my mind that it ain't 
^dams, nor it ain't Moses Pennel, that's to marry her. I've had 
)eculiar exercises of mind about that 'ere child. Well, 1 have;" 
tnd Miss Roxy pulled a large spotted bandanna handkerchief out 
>f her pocket, and blew her nose like a trumpet, and then wiped 
he withered corners of her eyes, which were humid as some old 
)rr's Island rock, wet with salt spray. 

Miss Emily had a secret love of romancing. It was one of the 
ecreations of her quiet, monotonous life to build air castles, which 
he furnished regardless of expense, and in which she set up at 
lonse-keeping her various friends and acquaintances ; and she had 
Iways been bent on weaving a romance on the history of Mara 
nd Moses Pennel. 

The good little body had done her best to second Mr. Sewell's 
.ttempts toward the education of the children. It was little, 
)usy Miss Emily who persuaded honest Zephaniah and Mary 
Pennel that talents such as Mara's ought to be developed; and 
ihafc ended in aendiDg her to Miss Pluckei'^ «r,1\oo\ m "e^^t^^NsA, 


Tliore her artistic faculties were trained into creating fdnerealmooi- 
inouts out of clienille ombroidery, fully equal to Miss Emily^B own; 
al.><o to paiuting landscapes, in which the ground and all thetteei 
wore OHO unvarying tint of blue green; and also to creating 
flowers of a now and particular construction, which, as SaSf 
Kit t ridge remarked, were pretty, but did not look like anythiig 
ill heuvcu or earth. Mara had obediently and patiently done il 
tlicr:c things, and solaced herself with copying flowers, and biidit' 
an<l landscapes, as near aa possible like Nature, as a recreaiiai 
from these more dignified toils. 

Mi£s Emily also had been the means of getting Mara invited to 
liOHton, where she saw some really polished society, and gained an 
much knowledge of the forms of artificial life as a nature so who^f 
and strongly individual could obtain. So little Miss Em3f 
ri yarded ^lara as her own child, and was intent on finishing 
Iior up into a romance of real life, of which a handsome yoong 
Dian, who had been washed ashore in a shipwreck, should be tbo 
hero. What would she have said could she hear the conversation 
that was transpiring in her brother's study? Little could she 
dream that the mystery about which she had timidly nibbled for 
years was now about to be unrolled ; but it was even so. 

But what she does not see, good reader, you and I, following 
Invisibly on tip-toe, will make our observations on. 

When Moses waa first ushered into Mr. Sewell*s study, and 
found himself quite alone, with the door shut, his heart beat so 
that he fancied the good man must hear it. He knew well 
what he wanted and meant to say ; but he found in himself all that 
shrinking and nervous repugnance which always attends the pro- 
posing of any decisive and fateful question. 

"I thought it proper," he began, "that I should call and ex- 
]>rcss my sense of obligation to you, sir, for all the kindness you 
have shown me when a boy. I am afraid, in those thoughtless 
clays, I did not seem to appreciate it so much as I do now." 

As Moses said this, the colo\ir xoa^ m \i\a c^v^^^^ wid his fine 
eyes grow moist with a sort oi subdued ieeViXi^ \XivvX» m^i^a Vv^ \:\^ 
^or the moment more than usually "bcauWiuV. 


Mr. Sewell looked at him "with an expression of pecniiar 
kierest, which seemed to have something almost of pain in it, and 
^^tjBwered, with a degree of feeliDg more than he commonly 
allowed — 

" It has been a pleasure to me to do anything I could for you, 
^ijy young friend. I only wish it could have been more. I con- 
^ratalate you on your present prospects in life. You have perfect 
«)ealth, you have energy and enterprise, you are courageous and 
^elf-reliant, and I trust your habits are pure and virtuous. It only 
Remains that you add to all this the fear of the Lord which is the 
l^nning of wisdonh" 

Moses bowed his head respectfully, and then sat silent a 
moment, as if he were looking through some cloud, where ho 
Tunly tried to discern what he wished to see. 

Mr. Sewell continued, gravely — " You have the greatest reason 
to bless the kind Providence which has cast your lot in such a 
&mily — in such a community. I have had some means in my 
yontb of comparing other parts of the country with our New 
England, and it is my opinion that a young man could not ask a 
better introduction into life than the wholesome nurture of a 
Christian family in our favoured land." 

"Mr. Sewell," said Moses, raising his head, and suddenly 
looking at him straight in tho eyes, " do you know anything of my 

The question was so point-blank and sudden that, for a 
moment, Mr. Sewell made a sort of motion as if he dodged a 
pistol-shot, and then his face assmned an expression of grave 
thoughtfulness, while Moses drew a long breath. It was out I — 
the question had been asked ! 

"My son," replied Mr. Sewell, "it has always been my inten- 
tion, when you had arrived at years of discretion, to make you 
acquainted with all that I know or suspect in regard to your life. 
I trust that when I tell you all I do know, you will see that I have 
acted for the best in the matter. It has been my study and my 
prayer to do bo, " 

Mr Sowell then rose, and unlock\ng \la(i ci^\xi^\)^ ^^^ •^V\^"^'^ 


have before made mention, in his apartm^t, drew fbrth a \erf 
yellow and time-worn package of papers, which he untied. Yvm 
these he selected one which enyeloped an old-fjEishioned xmniaton 

^^ I am going to show you," he said, '^ what only you and mj 
God know that I possess. I have not looked at it now forts 
years ; bat I have no doubt that it is the likeness of your mQtkr.V 

Closes took it in his hand, and for a few moments there camet 
mist over his eyes — ^he could not see dearly. He walked to te 
window, as if needing a clearer light. 

AVhat he saw was a painting of a beautiful young girl, iridk- 
large melancholy eyes, and a clustering abundance of black cmif 
hair. The face was of a beautiful dear oval, witii that mm 
brunette tint which the Italian painters delight in ; the black ^ 
brows were strongly and evenly defined ; and there was in ibB 
frice an indescribable expression of childish innocence and shynen, 
mingled with a kind of confiding frankness, that gave the picton 
the charm which sometimes fixes itself in faces for which, inydim- 
tarily, we make a history. 

She was represented simply attired in a white muslin, made low 
in the nock, and the hands and arms were singularly beautifnl 
The picture, as Moses looked at it, seemed to stand smiling at him 
with a childish grace — a tender, ignorant innocence which afiSaoted 
him deeply. 

" My young friend," said Mr. Sewell, '* I have written all that 
I know of the original of this picture, and the reasons I have for 
thinking her your mother. You will find it all in this paper, 
which, if I had been providentially removed, was to have been 
given you in your twenty-first year. You will see in the delicate 
nature of tlio narrative, that it could not properly have been im- 
parted to you till you had arrived at years of understanding. I 
trust, when you know all, that you will be satisfied with the 
course I have pursued. You will read it at your leisure, and, 
fl-fter reading, I shall be happy to see you again." 

Moses took the package, and, ai\«t ei^ci\vsi.Tv^^«»\\x!(s^^^^ yy[(]\ 

>"»■•; J-- 


^^^ * oewell, hastily left the house and sought his boat. When one 

]^^J^ ^ddenly come into possession of a letter or paper, in which is 

^>ni to be hidden the solution of some long-pondered secret, or 

clecision of Fate with regard to some long-cherished desire — 

flias not been conscious of a sort of pause, an un^^lingness 

to know what is therein ? We turn the letter again and 

: ; we lay it by and return to it, and defer from moment to 

it the opening of it. So Moses did not sit down in the first 

spot to ponder this eventful paper. He put it in the breast- 

.^^^det of his coat, and then, taking up his oars, rowed across tho 
^';^^y. He did not land at the house, but directed the course of his 
around the south point of the island, and rowed up the other 
to seek a solitary retreat in the rocks which had always been a 
rite with him in his early days. 
The shores of the island, as we have said, are a precipitous wall 
V lock, whose long-ribbed ledges extend far out into the ocean. 
<Ai high tide these ledges are coyered with the smooth blue sea, 
^Hxte up to the precipitous shore. There was a place, however, 
"^Lere the rocky shore shelved over, forming between two ledges a 
•ort of grotto, whose smooth floor of shells and many- coloured 
I^bles was never wet by the rising tide. 

It had been the delight of Moses, when a boy, to come here and 
"^^tch the gradual rise of the tide till the grotto was entirely cut 
off from all approach, and then to look out, in a kind of hermit- 
Jike security, over the open ocean that stretched before him. Many 
^n hour he had sat there and dreamed of all the possible fortunes 
that might be found for him when he should launch away into that 
"blue, smiling futurity. 

It was now about half -tide, and Moses left his boat and made 
liis way over the ledge of rocks towards his retreat. They were 
all shaggy and slippery with yellow sea- weed, and here and there 
among their cavities were crystal pools, where purple, lilac, and 
green mosses unfolded their delicate threads, and thousands of 
curious little shell-fish were tranquilly pursuing their quiet life. 
Tbo ToolcB, where the pellucid water lay.^"wetc>, vcv ^cykv^.^-^rs^^ 


crustod with barnacles, which were opening and shtittiiig tl 
white Bcaly doors of their tiny tabernacles, and drawing 
ont thoBO small pink plumes which seem to be their n( 

Moses and Mara had rambled and played here many 
their childhood, amusing themselves with catching littl 
lobsters, and other quaint sea natives for their rocky aq 
and then studying at their leisure their various ways. 

Now he was come here a man to learn the secret of 
Moses stretched himself down on the clean, pebbly shor( 
grotto, and drew forth Mr. Sewell^s letter. 


Mr. Seweix's letter ran as follows : — 

" My dear young Friend, — It has always been my ii 
when you arrived at years of maturity, to acquaint you w 
circumstances which have given me reason to conjecture ^ 
parentage, and to let you know what steps I have taken t 
my own mind in relation to these conjectures. 

" In order to do this, it will be necessary for me to go 
the earlier years of my life, and give you the history of i 
cidents which are known to none of my most intimate &i 
trust I may rely on your honour that they will ever r< 
secrets with you. 

" I graduated from Harvard College, in 18 — . Atth 
was suffering somewhat from an affection of the lungs, ^ 
casioned great alarm to my mother, many of whose fai 
died of consumption. In order to allay her uneasiness, an 
the purpose of raising funds for the pursuit of my pre 
studies, I accepted a position as tutor in the family of a 
gentleman in St. Augustine, in the State of Florida. 

" I cannot do justice to myaeiVi — to t\ia \elo\an^ 'which 
me in the events which took place In t\iia i^m\Vj— VvOjx^ 


Lg witli the most undisguised freedom of the character of all the 
surties with whom I was connected ; and, as many of them may 
cove to be relations of yours, I must apologise in advance for the 

" Don Jose Mendoza waa a Spanish gentleman of large property 
'"ho had emigrated from the Spanish West Indies to Florida, 
linging with him an only daughter, who had been left an orphan 
J the death of her mother at a very early age. 

" He brought to this country a large number of slaves, and, 
hortly after his arrival, married an American lady — a widow with 
.hree children. By her he had four other children : and thus it 
iriU appear that the family was made up of such a variety of ele- 
ments as only the most judicious care could harmonise. 

" But the character of the father and mother was such that 
udicious care was a thing not to be expected of either. 

" Don Jose was extremely ignorant and proud, and had lived a 
ife of the grossest dissipation, 

" Habits of absolute authority in the midst of a community of 
, very low moral standard, had produced in him all the worst vices 
if despots. He was cruel, overbearing, and dreadfully passionate. 
lis wife was a woman who had pretensions to beauty, and at 
imcB could make herself agreeable, and even fascinating, but 
ossessed of a temper quite as violent and ungoverned as his own. 

" Imagine, now, two classes of slaves, the one belonging to the 
aistress, andthe^other brought into the country by the master, 
nd each animated by party spirit and jealousy ; imagine children 
f different marriages, inheriting from their parents violent tempers 
nd stubborn wills, flattered and fawned on by slaves, and alter- 
lately petted or stormed at, now by this parent and now by that, 
nd you wiU have some idea of the task which I undertook in 
<&ng tutor in this family. 

" I was young and fearless in those days, as you are now ; and 
he difl&culties of the position, instead of exciting apprehension, 
•nly awakeued the spirit of enterprise and adyen.t\ir<i, 

''The whole arrangements of the \io\x&dvoV\. \/o ^'^^ It^'^v \y^\^ 


the simplicity and order of New England, had a singulat aa4 vM 
6 .'Ft of novelty, which was attractive, rather than othervifie. I J^ 
was well recommended in the family by an influential and yf&^ 
gentleman of Boston, who represented my family, as indeed it^ 
as among the oldest and most resx>ectable of Boston, and spdft 
in such terms of me personally as I should not have ventmedlj 
use in relation to myself. AVhen I arrived I found that tw) 
three tutors, who had endeavoured to bear rule inthistem; 
f-imily, had thrown up the command after a short trial, and 
tlie parents felt some little apprehension of not being able to bb»; 
cure the services of another — a circumstance which I did not fifl 
to improve in making my preliminary arrangements. ' I ssssaaA 
an air of grave hauteur ^ was very exacting in all my requiffltiflii 
.11 id stipulations, and would give no promise of doing more to 
to give the situation a temporary trial. I put on an air of supwM 
indifference as to my continuance, and acted, in fact, rather oi 
the assumption that 1 should confer a favour by remaining. 

" In this way I succeeded in obtaining at the outset mor 
respect and deference than had been enjoyed by any of my pre 
decessors. I had a fine apartment, a servant exclusively devote 
to me, a horse for riding, and saw myself treated among ti 
servants as a person of consideration and distinction. 

" Don Jose and his wife both had, in fact, a very strong deffl 
to retain my services, when, after the trial of a week or two, it w 
found that I really could make their discordant and turbule: 
children, to some extent, obedient and studious during certa 
portions of the day. In fact, I soon acquired in the whole fEuni 
that ascendancy which a well-bred person who respects himse 
and can keep his temper, must acquire over passionate and undi 
ciplined natures. 

" I became the receptacle of the complaints of all, and a sort 
confidential adviser. Don Jose imparted to me, with more fran 
ness than good taste, his chagrins with regard to his wife's in(3 
lence, ill-temper, and bad management; and his wife in tu 
o:mttcd no opportunity to vent compVsCwi^?. ^v^-mx^XaV^xX^sN^osis^v^k.' 


eafioos. I endeaYOured, to the best of my ability, to act 

ly part by both. It never was in my nature to see any- 

lat needed to be done without trying to do it, and it was 

ble for me to work at all without becoming bo interested in 

rk as to do far more than I agreed to do. I assisted Don 

bout many of his affairs ; brought his neglected accounts 

rder, and suggested, from time to time, arraugementA which 

ed the difficulties which had been brought on by disorder and 

ct. In fact, I had become, as he said, quite a necessary of 


In regard to the children, I had a more difficult task. The 

Iren of Don Jose by his present wife had been systematically 

ulated by the negroes into a chronic habit of dislike and 

maj towards her children by her former husband. On the 

itest pretext they were constantly running to their father with 

aplaints, and as the mother warmly espoused the cause of her 

{t children, criminations and recriminations often convulsed the 

lole family. 

"In ill-regulated families in slave-holding communities, the 
re of the children being from the first in the hands of half- 
rbarised negroes, whose power of moulding and assimilating the 
ildish mind is peculiar, the teacher has to contend constantly 
th an element of barbarism in his pupils which seems to have 
sn drawn in with the mother^s milk. ^It is, in a modified way, 
nething the same in result as if the child had formed its manners 
Dahomey, or on the coast of Guinea. 

"In the fierce quarrels which were carried on between the 
ildren of this family, I had frequent occasion to observe this 
unge, savage element, which sometimes led to expressions and 
bions which would seem incredible in Christianised society. The 
pee children by Madame Mendoza's former husband were two 
:1s of sixteen and eighteen, and a boy of fourteen. 

" The four children of the second marriage consisted of three 
ys and a daughter — the eldest being not more than thirteen. 
** The natural capacity of all the cbiidrexi ^«a ^ocA^^Ji^'^f^'^N 


from Bclf-will and indolence, they had grown up in a degr 
ignorance which could not have been tolerated, except in & £ 
living an isolated plantation fife, in the midst of barb; 

" Savage and untaught and passionate as they were, the 
of teaching thein w^as not without its interest to me. A po 
control was, with me, a natural gift — and then that oommi 
temper, which is the common attribute of well-trained pen 
the Northern States, was something so singular in this famil; 
invest its possessor with a obtain awe — ^and my calm, un( 
voice, and determined manner, often acted as a charm oi 
stormy natures. 

" But there was one member of the family of whom I b 
yet spoken, and yet all this letter is about her — ^the daug 
Don Jose by his first marriage — ^poor Dolores. Poor child 
grant she may have entered into his rest I 

" I need not describe her ; you have seen her picture ; 
this rude, discordant family she always reminded me of the 
* a hly among thorns.' 

"She was in her nature unlike all the rest, and, I m 
imlike any one I ever saw. She seemed to live a lonely 
life in this disorderly household, often marked out as the o 
the spites and petty tyrannies of both parties. She was n 
with bitter hatred and jealousy by Madame Mendoza, 'v\ 
sure to visit her with imsparing bitterness and cruelty a 
occasional demonstrations of fondness she received from her 
Her exquisite beauty and the gentle softness of her mannei 
such a contrast to her sisters as constantly excited their 
Unlike them all, she was fastidiously neat in her personal 
and orderly in all the little arrangements of life. She see 
me in this family to be like some shy, beautiful pet creaturi 
hands of some harsh barbarians, hunted from quarter to c 
and finding rest only by stealth ; yet she seemed to have ] 
ception of the harshness and cruelty with which she was i 
She had grown up with it : it waa tliQ ha.Ut of her life tc 


le methods of averting or avoiding the varioua iiicon- 

;es and annoyances of her lot, and secure to herself a little 

qmet she loved. It not unfrequently happened, amid the 

and storms which shook the family, that one party or the 

took up and patronised Dolores for a while, more, as it 

1 appear, out of hatred for the other than any real love to her. 

ich times it was truly affecting to see with what warmth the 

child would receive these equivocal demonstrations of good- 

— the nearest approaches to affection which she had ever 

wn — and the bitterness with which she would mourn when 

y were capriciously withdrawn again. With a heart full of 

3ction, she reminded me of some delicate climbing plant, trying 

inly to ascend the slippery side of an inhospitable wall, and 

AOwing its neglected tendrils around every weed for support. 

bg only just, unfailing friend was her old negro nurse, or 

Mnmny,^ as the children called her. This old creature, with the 

jnnning and subtlety resulting from years of servitude, watched 

md waited upon the interests of her little mistress, and contrived 

to carry many points for her in the ill-regulated household. 

"Her young mistress was her one thought and purpose in 
fiying — she would have gone through fire and water to aprve her : 
and this fdthful, devoted heart, blind and ignorant though it 
were, was the only unfailing refuge and solace of the poor hunted 

" Dobres, of course^ became my pupil among the rest. Like 
the others, she had suffered by the neglects and interruptions in 
the education of the family ; but she was intelligent and docile, 
and learned with a surprising rapidity. 

^' It was not astonishing that she should soon have formed an 
enthusiastic attachment to me, as I was the only intelligent, culti- 
rated person she had ever seen, and treated her with unvarying 
consideration and delicacy. This poor thing had been so ac- 
customed to barbarous words and manners, that simple politeness, 
and the usages of good society, seemed to her causes tor the most 
boundless gratitude. . - 

jjl The pearl of orr^s island. 

** it is due to myself, in view of wliat follows, to «&y^'l 
was from the first aware of the very obvions danger whidi^yiil 
my path in finding myself brought into close daily relations ^na] 
a young creature so confiding, bo attractive, and so angowfj 
cinumstanccd. I knew that it would be in the highest 
dishonourable to make the slightest advances towards 
from her that kind of affection which might interfere mtlil 
happiness in such future relations as her father might arrang^l 

*' According to the European fasliion, I knew that DoloieB' 
in her father's hands to be disposed of for life, according to 
pleasure, as absolutely as if she had been one of his slaves. IW 
every reason to think that his plans on this subject were matawi 
and only waited for a little more teaching and training on mypirt 
and her fuller development in womanhood, to be announced tote 

'* In looking back over the past, therefore, I have not \ 
reproach myself with any dishonest and dishonourable breach « 
trust ; for I was, from the first, upon my guard ; and so much t 
that even the jealousy of my other scholars never accused me 
partiality. I was not in the habit of giving very warm prais 
and was in my general management anxious rather to be just th 
conciliatory ; knowing that with the kind of spirits I had to d 
with, firmness and justice went further than anything else. 1 
approved Dolores oftener than the rest, it was seen to be becai 
she never failed in her duty ; if I spent more time with 1 
lessons, it was because her enthusiasm for study led her to lei 
longer ones and study more things ; but I am sure there was ne 
a look or a word towards her that went beyond the proprieties 
my position. 

"But yet I could not so well guard my heart. I was young i 
full of feeling ; she was beautiful — and, more than that, there ^ 
something in her Spanish nature at once so warm and so sim; 
t<o artless, and yet so unconsciously poetic, that her presence w£ 
continual charm. How well I remember her now — all her li 
w ays — the movements of her pretty little hands^ the expressi 


igefiil face as she recited to me — ^the grarc, npt eager* 
which she listened to all my instructL^ns^ .<! liad not 
her many ireeks before I felt consoioiui.thatdtiiras-iier 
lat charmed the whole house, and made thaotkenv^isa 
and distasteful details of my situatioii.iupnMable. I 
perception that this growing passion was a .daniferous 
myself; but was it a reason, I asked» Mk^ I shoiild 
% position in which I felt that I was usefuL; andiwh^sa 
for this lovely child what no one else oonld da? . I. call 
—she always impressed me as such — ^though^jshe vas. in 
ith year, and had the early womanly diyelopB&tnt of 
limates. She seemed to me like 8omeiihing.^£railian4 
ceding to be guarded and cared for y and when lepson 
at I risked my own happiness in holding m^^poBitioii, 

d, on the other hand, that I was he^ionii^ iigjBod, Andt 
lid be willing to risk something for mysell^ for 'the sake 
Dg and shielding her; for there was jno doubt .that n^ 
i the family was a restraint upon thapas^ioiistwhidi 
3nted themsdves so recklessly on heiyaj^i^eBtabliahcd 4k 
ler in which she found more peace fAaH-qhAihad^j^eree 

i/» . , I . ,. .1 v» 

long time in our intercourse, I^.vaa mi.the^habii.oC 
I myself as the only party in danger^ III <£dj^et..«ccur 
this heart, so beautiful and SQ^lonely*. ought, in jtha 
[natural and appropriate object8.oi(.^t^hjnent9 fastea, 

e, unsolicited, from the mere necessity vOf kmng^-.-Sha 
me so much too> beautiful, toa..pei&Qt,. too, AhcMnning 
ong to a lot in life like mine, thatiX could BdteuppoM 
this could occur without the most blamewotthy solidtat 
r part ; and it is the saddest and moslaffettin^ ynaLim 
is heart had been starved for sympathy iand.l(XKe>. that it 
'e repaid such cold services as'n^ne.'v^ith suoh antentisei 

At first her feelings were expj^i^ised. openly tofwarda mei^ 
utiful air of a good child. Shft placed, fldwen .loiii mfv 
e mcnming, and made quaint little iaBe|;ia:f« u^iSaasie^MOL* 


IbIi fa>liion, which hhogavo mc ; and biisied her Icisare with vsrioQfl 
ingL'uiuus little knick-knacks of fancy work, which she brought me. 
I treated them all as the offerings of a child while with her, bnt I 
kopt them sacredly in my own room. To tell the tmth, I h&TQ 
some of the poor little things now. 

" Bnt after a while I conld not help seeing how she loved me; 
and then I felt as if I ought to go ; but how could I ? The pain i9 
myself I could have borne ; but how could I leave her to all thi 
misery of her bleak, ungenial position? She, poor thing, nu 
unconscious of what I knew, for I was made dear-sighted by lora 

" I tried the more strictly to keep to the path I had marked 
out for myself, but I fear I did not always do it. In fkct, many 
things seemed to conspire to throw us together. The sisteis, Trin 
were sometimes invited out to visits on neighbouring estates, wen 
glad enough to dispense with the presence and attractions of Dol- 
ores, and so she was frequently left at home to study with me is 
their absence. As to Don Jose, although he always treated ids 
with civility, yet he had such an ingrained and deep-rooted idea 
of bis own superiority of position, that I suppose he would as boob 
imagine the pofiedbility of his daughter falling in love with one d 
his horses. I was a great convenience to him. I had a knack of 
({[overning and carrying points in his family that it always troabled 
find fatigued him to endeavour to arrange, and that was all. So 
that my intercourse with Dolores was as free and unwatched, and 
gave me as many opportunities of enjoying her undisturbed society 
as heart could desire. 

" At last came the crisis. After breakfast one morning, Don 
Jose called Dolores into his library, announced to her that he had 
ooncluded a treaty of marriage for her, and expected her husband 
to arrive in a few days. 

" He expected that the news would be received by her with the 
ghe with which a young girl hears of a new dress, or of a ball- 
ticket, and was quite confounded at the grave and mournful silence 
In which she listened to it. 

"9>h0mid»Q wan^madt nt py^od^xw-^t w«tit out fron 

A trftXATf OP MARRIAOB. 22t 

x>iD, ai^ shut heraelf up in her own apartment, and spent tfao 
n tears and aobs. 

Don Joee, who had rather a greater regard for Bobres than 
ny creatore living,' and who had confidently expected to pro- 
great ddight hy the news he had' imparted, was quite 
>unded at this torn of things. If there had been one word 
ther expostulation or argument, he would have biassed and 
led in a fury of passion ; but, as it was, this broken-hearted 
jssion, though yexatious, was perplexing. He sent for me, 
ipened his mind, and begged me to talk with Ddores, and 
her the advantages of the alHance. The man was immensely 
and had a splendid estate in Cuba : it was a most desirable 

I rentnred to inquire whether his person and manners were 
as would be pleasing to a young girl, and could only gather 
he was a inan of about fifty, who had be^ most of his lifb in 
oilitary service, and was now desirous of making an estal^ish- 
i for the repose of' his latter days ; at the head of which he 
d place a handsome and tractable wranan, and do well -by her. 
I represented t^t it would perhaps be safer to say no more 
le subject until Dolores had seen him, and to this he agreed. 
ame Mendoza was very zealous in the afOsur, for the sake of 
ng clear of the presence of Dolores in the family, and her 
n laughed at her for her dejected appearance; Vnoy only 
sd, they said, that so much luck might happen to them. 
For myself, I endeavoured to take as little notice as poesible of 
tflEBor, though what I felt may be conjectured. I knew— »I was 
^y certain that Dolores loved me as I loved her. I knew that 
had one of those simple and unworldly naittkres which weal^ 
B{^endoar could not satisfy, and whose life would lie entirely 
ler affectionSf Sometimes I violently debated with' Inyself 
^er honour required me to sacrifice her happiness as wedl as 
>wn, and I felt the strongest temptation to ask her to' be my 
, and fly with me to the Northern States, -lirhere I did not 
^t* n^ ability tomaka lor her.a humbly «Sid\ia.'^i^.\vsssi^ * 



*' But the souse of Iiononr is often stronger than all reasonin^t 
Riul I felt that such a course would be the betrayal of a trust; and 
i determined, at least, to command myaelf till I should see the 
character of the man who was destined to be her husband. 

" Meanwhile, the whole manner of Dolores was changed. She 
maintained a stony, gloomy silence, performed all her duties in a 
listless way, and occasionally, when I commented on anything ii 
her k'ssons or exercises, would break into little flashes of petolane^ 
most strange and unnatural in her. Sometimes I could feel thik 
Bhc was looking at me earnestly ; but, if I turned my eyes towardi 
hor, hers were instantly averted. But there was in her eyai 
peculiar expression at times, such as I have seen in the eye of i 
Iiuntcd animal, when it turned at bay — a sort of desperate leHBtF 
ancc, which, taken in connection with her fragile form and lordf 
face, produced a mournful impression. 

" One morning I found Dolores sitting alone in the schoot 
room, leaning her head on her arms. She had on her wrist i 
bracelet of peculiar workmanship, which she always wore— the 
bracelet which was afterwards the means of confirming her 
identity. She sat thus some moments in silence, and then she 
raiseil her head, and began turning this bracelet round and round 
nix>n her arm, while she looked fixedly before her. At last she 
s]X)ke abruptly, and said, ^ Did I ever tell you that this was ny 
Mothcraha'iT? It is — my mother^s hair ! And she was the only 
one tliat ever loved me, except poor old mammy I Nobody dst 
loves me. Nobody ever will ! ' 

" * My dear Miss Dolores,' I began. ' 

" 'Don't call me dear!' she said; ' you don't care for nic! 
Nobody does ! Papa doesn't ; and I always loved him. Every- 
body in this house wants to get rid of me, whetlicr I like to go or 
not. I have always tried good, and do all you wanted ; and 
I should think you might care for me a little ; but you don't ! * 

" * Dolores,' I said, * I do care for you more than I do for any 
one in tlic world. I love you more than my own soul I ' 

^* ThcBo were the very words I neves mv^\it> to have said ; bub 



Qiehow they seemed to utter themselYeB against my will She 
)ked at me for a moment, as if she could not believe her hearing, 
d then the blood flashed her &ce, and she laid her head down on 
r arms. 

^' At this moment Madame Mendoza and the other girls came 
bo the room, in a clamour of admiration about a diamond 
acelet, which had just arrived as a present from her future 

'' It was a splendid thing, and had for its clasp his miniature, 
rrounded by the largest brilliants. 

** The entiiiusiasm of the party, even at this moment, could not 
y anything in favour of the beauty of this miniature, which, 
ouglh painted on ivory, gave the impression of a coarse-featured 
an, with a scar across one eye. ' No matter for the beauty,' 
id one of the girls, * so long as it's set with such diamonds.' 

«^ ^ Gome, Dolores,' said another, giving her the present, * pull 
r that old hair bracelet, and try this on.' 

" Dolores threw the bracelet from her. 

^^ ^ I shall not take off my mother^s bracelet for a gift from a 
an I never knew,' she said. ^ I hate diamonds. I wish those 
ho like such things might have them.' , 

<i i -^33 ever anything so odd? ' said Madame Mendoza. 

« « Dolores always was odd,' said another of the girls ; ^ nobody 
rer could tell what she would like.' 

^'The next day, the Signor Don Gusman de Cardona arrived, 
id the whole house was in a commotion of excitement. There 
as to be no school, and everything was bustle and confusion. 

'*I passed my time in my own room, in reflecting severely 
pen myself for the imprudent words by which I had thrown one 
Lore difficulty in the way of this poor, harassed child. 

*' Dolores, this day, appeared perfectly passive in the hands of 
er mother and sisters, who' seemed disposed to pay her great 

'^ She allowed them to array her in her most becoming dress, 
nd made no objection to anything exce]^t t^mQ^m^\k<^\st^'i^^ 


from he* arm. • Nobody's gift should take the place of bei 
]ii(itlier*8/ she said ; and they were obliged to be content with list 
\wnnu'^ of the diamond bracelet on the other arm. 

^' ] >i)n Gusinau was a largo, plethoric man, with coarse features 
nii-l hoavy «^'ait. BesiJea the scar I have spoken of, his face was 
nilorneil, hire aud there, with pimples, which were not set downii 
tht.' nuniature. In the course of the first hour's study I saw bin 
to be a man of much the same stamp with Dolores' father — sensoalf 
t yr:inuical, and passionate. He seemed, in his own way, to \» 
] I inch struck with the beauty of his intended wife, and was not 
wanting in efforts to please her. All that I could see in her wii 
Iho settled, passive paleness of despair. She played, sang, ex- 
hibited her embroidery and painting, at the command of Madama 
Meiidoza, with the air of an automaton, and Don Gusman w- 
inarkoil to her father on this passive obedience, as a proper ani 
hopeful trait. Once only, when he, in presenting her a flower, 
took the liberty of kissing her cheek, did I observe a flashiDg of 
her eyes, and a movement of disgust and impatience that she 
scorned scarcely able to restrain, 

" The maiTiage was announced to take place the next week, 
iiiul a holiday was declared thi'ough the house. Nothing was 
talked of, or discussed, but the splendid corbeille de manage which 
the bridegroom had brought — the dresses, laces, sets of jewels, 
and cashmere shawls. Dolores never had been treated with such 
attention by the family in her life. She rose immeasurably in 
the eyes of all, as the future possessor of such wealth and such an 
establishment. Madame Mendoza had visions of future visits in 
Cuba rising before her mind, and overwhelmed her daughter-in- 
law with flatteries and caresses, which she received in the same 
Ijassive silence as she did everything else. 

" For my own part, I tried to keep entirely by myself. I re- 
mained i 1 my room reading, and took my daily rides, accompanied 
by my servant, seeing Dolores only at meal times, wlien I scivrcely 
ventured to look at her. 

" One night J however, as I "waa vj^\i\\^ >;>mcow^^\ ^Vswijc^ >^xs(i 


of the garden, Dolores saddenly stepped ont from the shrubberj 
and stood before me. How well I remember her as she looked 
then I It was bright moonlight, and showed her face and figure 
with perfect distinctness. She was dressed in white muslin, as 
she was fond of being, but it had been torn and disordered by the 
haste with which she had come through the shrubbery. Her &ce 
was fearfully pale, and her great dark eyes had an unnatural 

" She laid hoM on my arm. 

•* ' Look here,' she said ' I saw you — ^I came down to speak 
with you.' 

'^ She panted and trembled so that, for some moments, she 
oonld not speak another word. 

•* *I want to ask,* she gasped, after a pause, * whether I heard 
you right. Did you say ' 

" * Yes, Dolores, I did. I did say what I had no right to say, 
like a dishonourable man.' 

'' ^ But is it true f Are you sure it is true f ' said she, scarcely 
seeming to hear my words. 

"' ' God knows it is,' said I, despairingly. 

•* * Then why don't you save me ? Why do you let tliem s^ 
me to this dreadful man ? He does not love me — ^he never will. 
Can't you take me away ? ' 

'^ * Dolores, I am a poor man. I cannot give you any of these 
splendours your &ther desires for you.' 

" • Do you think I care for them ? Do you think I want them ? 
I love you more than all the world together, and if you do really 
love me, why should we not be happy with each other ? ' 

" « Dolores,' I said, with a last effort to keep calmj * I am much 
oMer than you, and have seen the world, and ought not to tako 
advantage of your simplicity. You have been so accustomed to 
abundant wealth, and to all that it can give, that you cannot form 
an idea of what the hardships and discomforts of marrying a poor 
mail would be. You are unused to having the least eare, or 
vnaking the least ei^ertioB for yourself, AH tbe wocld ^(Q^d><a.^ 


that I acted a very dishonourable part to take you from a pontion 
w}iiuh offers you wealth, and splendour, and ease, to one of com- 
jKiratiTe hardship.* 

^* While I was speaking thus, Dolores turned me towards the 
moonlight, and fixed her great dark eyes, piercingly upon me, ai 
if slie wished to read into my soul. 

^ ' Is that all V she said ; ' is that the only reason ?* 

** ^ I do not understand you,' said I. 

" She gave me such a desolate look, and said, in a tone of utter 
dejection,^ Oh, I didn't know, but perhaps you might not want 
me, like all the rest, who are so glad to sell me to anybody tlut 
will take me. But you really do love me, don't you?" she added, 
laying her hand on mine. 

M I cannot tell you the answer I made. I only know that eveiy 
Ycstige of what is called reason, or common sense, melted awaj) 
and that then followed an hour of delirium, in which I — ^we hoth 
were very happy. We forgot everything but each other, and m 
arranged all our plans for flight. There was, fortunately, a ship 
lying in the harbour of St. Augustine, the captain of whom was 
known to me. In the course of a day or two our passage was 
taken, and my effects transported on board. ITobody seemed to 
suspect us. Everything went on quietly up to the day before that 
appointed for sailing. I took my usual rides, and did everythiog 
as much as possible in my ordinary way to disarm suspicion, and 
none seemed to exist. The wedding preparations went gaily for- 
ward. On the day I mentioned, when I had ridden some distance 
from the house, a messenger came post haste after me. It W9& a 
boy who belonged specially to Dolores. He gave me a little 
hurried note. I copy it : — 

" ^ Papa has found all out, and it is dreadful. No one else 
knows, and he means to kill you when you come back. Do, if 
you love me, hurry and get on board the ship. I shall never get 
over it if evil comes on you for my sake. I sliall let them do 
what they please with me. If God will only save yon, I will try 
to be jfood. f crbaps, if I bear my tsia^a h(v2\\^ Ui^ \(UI kt me dit 

KB. 8EW£LL*8 ESCAPE. 2^3 

Q-_that 18 all I ask. I love you, and always sliall, to death 
I after. ' Dolores/ 

'^ There was the end of it alL I escaped on the ship. I read 
marriage in the paper. Incidentally I afterwards heard of 
as living in Cuba, but I never saw her again till I saw her in 
cofi&n. Sorrow and death had changed her so much, that at 
b the sight of her awakened only a vague, painful remembrance. 
3 sight of the hair bracelet which I had seen on her arm brought 
back, and I felt sure that my poor Dolores had strangely come 
ileep her last sleep near me. 

u Immediately after I became satisfied who you were, I felt 
lainfal degree of responsibility for the knowledge. I wrote 
once to a friend of mine, in the neighbourhood of St. 
gnstine, to find out any particulars of the Mendoza funily. I 
med that its history had been like that of many others in that 
;ion. Don Jose had died in a bilious fever, brought on by an 
eseive dissipation, and at his death the whole estate was found 
be so encumbered that it was sold at auction. The slaves 
re scattered, hither and thither, to different owners, and Madame 
ndoza, with her children and remains of fortune, had gone to 
} in New Orleans. 

*« Of Dolores he had heard but once since her marriage. A 
lod had visited Don Gusman's estates in Cuba. He was living 
{reat splendour, but bore the character of a hard, cruel master, 
I an overbearing man. His wife was spoken of as being iu 
y delicate health, avoiding society, and devoting herself entirely 

" I would have taken occasion to say, that it was understood, 
m I went into the fJEtmily of Don Jose, that I should not in any 
f interfere with the rehgious faith of the children — the family 
ig understood to belong to the Roman Catholic Church. There 
I so little like religion of any kind in the family that the idea of 
ir belonging to any faith seemed something of the ludicrous, 
the case of poor Dolores, however, it was different. The 
lestness of her nature would always have mod^ a^y ceLi^\.Qw% 



.'inns a ivulity to ber. In her case, I was glad to remember tkt 
tho llomisb Church, with many corruptions, preserves all the 
isooiitial beliefs necessary for our salvation, and that many good 
niitl holy souls have gone to heaven through its doors. I, th£n- 
foro, was only careful to direct her principal attention to the nun 
fijiritual parts of her own faith, and to dwell on the great thaM 
A\hich all Christian people hold in common. Many of my pen» _ 
Eioii would not have felt free to do this ; but my liberty of «■■ 
science in this respect was perfect. - 1 have seen that if you bnil 
thu cup out of which a feeble soul has been used to taking theiriM 
of the Gospel, you run the risk of spilling the very wine ifedfj 
r.nd, after all, these forms are but shadows, of which the sahBtUii 
is Christ. 

^^I am free to say, therefore, that the thought that yoar pov 
mother was devoting herself earnestly to religion, although iftr 
the forms of a church with which I differ, was to me a sooneoC 
great consolation, because I knew that in that way alone conU> 
soul like hers find peace. 

" I have never rested from my efforts to obtain more in&f" 
mation. A short time before the incident which cast you upon 
our shore, I conversed with a sea captain who had returned fifoo 
Cuba. He stated that there had been an attempt at insuirec^ 
among the slaves of Don Gusman, in which a large part of tbo 
buildings and outhouses of the estate had been consumed by fire. 

" On subsequent inquiry I learnt that Don Gusman had BoW 
his estates, and embarked for Boston with his wife and family, and 
that nothing had afterwards been heard of him. 

"Thus, my young friend, I have told you all that I know of 
those singular circumstances which have cast your lot upon our 
shores. I do not expect that, at your time of life, you will take 
the same view of this event that I do. You may possibly, very 
jji-obably Avill, consider it a loss not to have been broun^ht up, a^ 
you might have been, in the splendid establishment of Don 
(Tiisinau, and found yourself heir to wealth and plejisure without 
hhuiir or exertion. Yet I am c^waV-q wxi^^ vi WvsjJt ^^saas.^ that your 


3 as a man and bmnan being would have been immeasurably 
I think I- liaye seen in you the elements of passions which 
ry, and idleness, and the too early possession of irrespoDsible 
sr might have developed with fatal results. You have simply 
sflect whether you would rather be tin energetic, intelligent, 
controlled man, capable of guiding the affairs of life and ac- 
ing its prizes,. or to be the reverse of all this, with its prizes 
;ht for you by the wealth of your parents. 
^ I hope mature reflection will teach you to regard with grati- 

that disposition of the All- wise which cast your lot- as it has 

^ Let me ask one thing in closing.' I have written for you 

mauy things most padnful to me to remember, because I 
;ed you to love and honour the memory of jour mother. I 
}ed that her memory should have something such a Charm for 
as it has for me. IVith me her image has always stood 
leen me and all other women ; but I have never even intimated 
living being that such a passage in my history has ever oc- 
3d — no, not even to the sister who is nearer to me than any 
p earthly creature. 

^ In some respects I am a singular person in my habits, and, 
Dg once written this, you will pardon me if I observe that it 
never be agreeable to me to have the subject named between 

Look upon me always as a friend who would regard 
ing as a hardship by which he might serve the son of one 

I have hesitated whether I ought to add one circumstance 
J. I think I will do sp, trusting to your good sense not to 
it any undue weight. 

[ have never ceased making inquiries in Cuba '^ I fbund 
irtunity in regard to your father's property, and lateinvesti- 
)ns have led me to the conclusion that he left a considerable 
of money in the hands of a notary, whose address T have, 
h, if your identity could be proved, would come in course of 
\oyovi, I Ji^ve written an account oi t3X \N3kfe ^^sotessS^jWis^Ri 

lioii THE PEAHL of OnR*8 ISLAND. 

which, in my view, identify you as the son of DonGtisiMiidi 
C'anloiia, and had them properly attested in legal form. 

^' This, together vith your mother's picture and the bracelet^ I 
roconunend you to take on your next voyage, and to see whatmii 
result from the attempt. How considerable the sum may la 
\vhii:h -will result from this I cannot say ; but, as Don Gusnoa^ 
fortune was very large, I am in hopes it may prove somedmi 
worth attention. 

" At any time you may wish to call I will have all these tbiogi 
ready for you. 

^ I am, with warm regard, 

^ Your sincere friend, 

" Theophilus Sswelu* 

When Moses had finished reading this letter, he laid it don 
on the pebbles be^de him, and, leaning back against a rock, lodM 
moodily out to sea. The tide had washed quite up to within a 
short distance of his feet, completely isolating the little grotto 
where he sat from all the surrounding scenery, and before bin, 
passing and repassing on the blue, bright solitude of the seii 
were silent ships, going on their wondrous pathways to unknown 

The letter had stirred all within him that was dreamy and 
poetic ; he felt somehow like a leaf torn from a romance, and blown 
strangely into the hollow of those rocks. Something, too, of 
ambition and pride stirred within him. He had been bom an heir 
of wealth and power — ^little as they had done for the happiness of 
his poor mother ; and when he thought he might have had theso 
two wild horses, who have run away with so many young men, he 
felt, as young men all do, an impetuous desire for their possessioiii 
and he thought as they do, " Give them to me, and I'll risk my 
character — I'll risk my happiness 1 " 

The letter opened a future before him which was something to 
Bpoculate upon, even though his reason told him it was uncertain ; 
aud he hj there, dreamily piling oii^ «m: casJ(\fc qix ^5x'^>^JasJt^Tlnfiub- 


l:antial as the great islands of \i-hite cloud that sailed through the 
ky, and dropped their shadows in the blue sea. 

It Tras late in the afternoon when he bethought him he must 
iQloni home, and so, climbing from rock to rock, he swung him- 
mSt£ upward into the island, and sought the brown cottage. 

As he passed by the open window, he caught a glimpse of Mara 
ivwing. He walked softly up to look in without her seeing him. 
Sie was sitting with the various articles of his wardrobe around 
iier, quietly and deftly mending his linen, singing soft snatches of 
Ui old psalm-tune. She seemed to have resumed, quite naturally, 
bhat quiet care of him and his which she had in all the earlier years 
of their life. ^ He noticed again her little hands — they seemed a 
feort of wonder to him: why had he never seen, when a boy, 
"how pretty they were ? And she had such dainty little ways of 
tiikisg up and putting down things, as she measured, and snipped, 
and clipped. It seemed so pleasant to have her handling his things; 
ft was as if a good fairy were touching them, whose touch brought 
peace. But then he thought, " By and by, she will do all this for 
nme one else.** The thought made hsltn angry ; he really felt 
abused in anticipation. She was doing all this for him just in 
risterly kindness, and likely as not thinking of somebody else whom 
she loved better all the time. It is astonishing how cooland 
dignified this consideration made our hero, as he faced up to the 
window. He was, after all, in hopes she might blush and look 
agitated at seeing him suddenly, but she did not. The foolish boy 
did not know the quick wits of a girl, and that all the while that 
he had supposed himself so sly and been holding his breath to ob- 
serve, Mara had been perfectly cognisant of his presence, and had 
been schooling herself to look as unconcerned and natural as pos- 
sible. So she did, only saying — i 

"Oh, Moses I is that you? Where have yoo been all 

" Oh, I went over to see Parson Sewell, and get mf paiStoral 
iBctore, you know." 

•'And did you stay to dinner?" ' 


" Xo, I came home, and went rambling round the iwis, »i 
got into our old cave, and never knew how the time passed." 

'*'\Vhy, then, you've had no dinner, pooar boy!" said Man, |:£ 
rising suddenly. " Come in quick ; you must be fed, or yoa*Il git 
dangerous, and eat somebody 1 '* 

" No, no ; don't get anything for me," said Moees ; " it's aliM*|t 
supper-time, and Tm not hungry ; " and Moses threw himself i 
a (iidr, and began abstractedly snipping a piece of tape ^ 
Marr/a very best scissors. 

" If you please, sir, don't demolish that ; I was going to it4 
one of your collars with it," said Mara. 

" Oh, hang it I Tm always in mischief among drls' thingilp ! 
said Moses, putting down the scissors, and picking up a pieced 
white wax, which, with equal unconsciousness, he began kneadiig 
in his hands, while he was dreaming over the strange conteatacC 
the morning's letter. 

" I hope Mr. Sewell didn't say anything to make you bokn 
very gloomy," said Mara. 

" Mr. Sewell 1 " said Moses, starting ; " no, he didn't. He-a 
fact, I had a pleasant call there ; and there was that confonndei 
old sphinx of a Miss Boxy there. Why don't she die ? She musk 
be somewhere near a hundred years old by this time." 

" I never thought to ask her why she didn't die," said Mara; 
" but I presume she has the best of reasons for living." 

^^Yes, that's so : every old toadstool, and burdock, andmulloi 
stalk lives, and thrives, and lasts — ^no danger of their dying! " 

" You seem to be in a charitable frame of mind," said Mara. 

" Confound it all! I hate this world! If I oould have m; 
own way now — ^if I could have just what I want, and do just as 
please exactly, I might make a pretty good thing of it.'* 

" And pray what would you have ? " said Mara. 

'* Well, in the first place, riches." 


else"»^^* ^ *^® '^^^ P^°®' ^ ^^' ^^^ money buys everythin 


' Well, sappoeing it is so," said Mara, " for argument's sake: 

!j would you buy with it? '* 

'Position in society, respect, consideration; and I'd have a 

ictid place, with everything elegant. I have ideas enough, 

' give me the means. And then I'd have a wife, of course." 

" And how much would you pay for her ?" said Mara, looking 

be cool. 

"Td buy her with all the rest. A girl that wouldn't look at 

as I am would take me for all the rest, you know — ^that's the 

y of the world." 

''It is, is it? " said Mara; *' I don't understand such matters 

" Yes, it's the way with all you girls," said Moses ; " it's the 
ly you'll marry, when you do." 

"Don't be so fierce about it ; I hayen't done it yet," said Mara. 
Bat now really I most go and set the supper->table when I have 
i these things away." 

And Mara gathered an armful of things together, and tripx)ed 
ging upstairs, and arranged them in the drawer of Moses' room, 
^ill his wife like to do all these little things for him as I do P " 
I thought. " It's natural I should ; I grew up with him, and 
e him just as if he were my own brother— he is all the brother I 
r had. I love him more than anything else in the world, and 
t wife he talks about could do no more." 
" She don't care a pin for me," thought Moses ; " it's only a 
it she's got, and her strict notions of propriety — ^that's all. She 
ousewifely in her instincts, and seizes all neglected linen and 
ments as her lawful prey ; she would do it just the same for 
grandfather." And Moses drummed moodily on the window- 


B timbers of the ship which was to cariy the fbrtuneGl of 

hero were laid by the side of Middle Bay, and all these 

iureB^tte shores oould hardly present^ a lovelier soeneb - This 


beautiful sheet of water separates Harpswell ftom BmiWlA. 
It8 sliores are rocky and pine-crowned, and ^^^^ **^'.™: 
romantic variety of outline. Eagle Wand, Shelter Idaj^i^ 
one OP two smaller ones, lie on the glassy sorfece, hke Mft OT 
of green foliage, pierced through by the steel-blue tops dtj^ 
pines. There were a goodly number of shareholdefs m thftF 
jected vessel, some among the most substantial men m the yvm 
Zephaniah Pennel had invested there quite a soUd sum, as had •■ 
our friend Captain Kittridge. Moses had placed therein the]^ 
ceeds of his recent voyage, which enabled him to buy a certt 
number of shares ; and he secretly revolved in mind wheihert 
sum of money left by his father might not be sufficient to m 
him to buy the whole ship. Then a few prosperous voyages, • 
his fortune was made. 

He went into the business of building the new vessel iriA 
the enthusiasm with which he used, when a boy, to plan sbips 
mould anchors. Every day he was off at early dawn, ia 
working clothes, and laboured steadily among the mfitt 
evening. No matter how early he started, he always found 
a good fairy had been before him and prepared his dinner dai: 
sometimes adding thereto a fragrant little bunch of flowers 
when his boat steered homeward at evening, he no longer sa^ 
as in the days of girlhood, waiting far out on the farthest p< 
rock for his return. Not that she did not watch for it, ai 
out many times towards sunset ; but the moment she had mj 

^?^* '* J^ ®^®^y ^®' ^^® ^o^^d run back into the house, ar 
hkely find an errand in her own room, where she would 
deeply engaged that it would be necessary for him to caU he 
before she could make her appearance. 

^^1ZZe::i:^ZTt'^^ very cheerfulest of ho 
around her that for ^J^^' ^^^ ^^ ^ ^^^^^^' i°^i«™e 
It vexed and pel^Z^^- ^^"^ "'^ ^*^^' ^« ^^^<1 ^^t brefi 
whistle it dowu^!, ff ^"^ .*^^ day after day he detern 

«<ie over It rough-shod-^nd be as fre 


his apparently 8oft,4inresistant, airy being vrho seemed 
. Why shouldn't he kiss her when he chose, and sit 
n round her waist, and draw her familiarly upou his 
Lttle child woman, who was as a sister to him? Why, 
Had she ever frowned or scolded, as Sally Eittridge 
) attempted to pass the hair line that divides man from 
? Not at all. She had neither bkished, nor laughed^ 
y : if he kissed her, she took it with the most matter- 
posure; if he passed his arm around her, she let it 
L unmoved calmness ; and, somehow, he did all these 
nd less, and wondered why. 

is, our hero had begun an experiment with his little 
VQ would never advise a yoimg man to try on one of 
), quiet, soft-seeming women whose whole life is in- 
lad determined to find out whether she loved him before 
d himself to her ; and the strength of a whole book 
( in women to endure, and to bear without flinching, 
yill surrender the gate of this citadel of silence, 
c, our hero had begun his siege with precisely the 
DS ; for on the night that he returned, and found Mara 
vith a stranger, the suspicion arose in his mind that 
3 might be interested in him, and, instead of asking 
jiybody might consider the most feasible step in the 
ed Sally Kittridge. Sally's inborn and inherent love 
as up in a moment. Did she know anything of that 
? — Of course she did : a young lawyer, of one of the 
families — ^a splendid fellow. She wished any such luck 
n to her. Was Mara engaged to him ? — ^What would 
low ? Why didn't he ask Mara ? Did he expect her 
r friend's secrets? well, she shouldn't. Beport said 
(vas well to do in the world, ismd had expectations from 
id didn't Moses think he was interesting in conversa- 
7body said what a conquest it was for an Orr's Island 
; and Sally said the rest with many a malicious toss, 
id sly twinkle of the dimples of her cheeky yrldck\!Q&2^ 


mean more or less, as a young man of imaginatiye temperameni 
was disposed to viow it. Now this was all done in pure, simple love 
of teasing. 

"\Vc incline to tliink phrenologists have as yet been very incom- 
plete in their classification of faculties, or they would have ap- 
l)oiuted a separate organ for this propensity of human natoie. 
Certain persons — often the most kind-hearted in the world, and 
who would not give pain in any serious matter — seem to have an 
insatiable appetite for those small annoyances which we common|f Jz 
denominate teasing, and SaUy was one of this nmnber. &B 
diverted herself infinitely in playing upon the excitability of MdbMi 
in awakening his curiosity and baffling it, and tormenting Ids 
with a whole phantasmagoria of suggestions and assertions iriaA 
played along so near the line of probability that one could nerff 
tell which might be fancy and which might be fact. 

Moses pursued the line of tactics for such cases made and pn- 
vided, and strove to awaken jealousy in Mara by paying marked 
and violent attentions to Sally. He went there evening after even- 
ing, leaving Mara to sit alone at home. He made secrets with ber, 
and alluded to them before Mara ; he proposed calling his nev 
vessel " The Sally Kittridge ; " but whether all these things made 
Mara jealous or not, he could never determine. 

Mara had no peculiar gift for acting, except in this one point; 
but here all the vitality of nature rallied to her support, and enabled 
her to preserve an air of the most unperceiving serenity. If she 
shed any tears when she spent a long, lonesome evening, she vas 
quite particular to be looking in a very placid frame when Moeea 
retm-ned, and to give such an account of the books, or the wort, 
or paintings which had interested her, that Moses was sure to lie 
vexed. Never were her inquiries for Sally more cordial ; never did 
she seem inspired by a more ardent affection for her. 

Whatever may have been the result of this state of things in 

regard to Mara, it is certain that Moses succeeded in convincing 

the common fame of that district that he and SaUy were destined 

for each other, and the thing -wtvs. T<i^>xi^iVj ^■ss.ciw^via. ^ qH tlie 


quilting frolics and tea-diinkings around, much to Miss Emi]y\ 
disgust and Aunt Roxy^s grim satisfciction, who declared that Mara 
was altogether too good for Moses Fennel ; but Sally Kittridge 
would make him ^' stand round " — by which expression she was 
understood to intimate that Sally had in her the rudunents of the 
■ame kind of domestic discipline which had operated so fayourably 
in the case of Captain Eattridge. 

These things, of course, had come to Mara^s ears. She had 
OTBrheard the discussions on Sunday noons as the people, between 
dmrch, sat over their dough nuts and cheese, and discussed their 
neighbouiB* affairs, and she seemed to smile at them all. Sally 
only laughed, and declared that it was no such thing ; that she 
would no more marry Moses Fennel, or any other fellow, than she 
would put her hand in the fire. What did she want of any of 
them? She knew too much to get married — that she did. She 
was going to have her liberty for one while yet to come, &c. &c. ; 
but all these assertions were, of course, supposed to mean nothing 
but the usual declarations in such cases ; and Mara, among the 
rest, thought it quite likely that this thing was yet to be. 

So she struggled, and tried to reason down a pain which con- 
stantly ached in her heart when she thought of this. She ought to 
have foreseen that it must some time end in this way. Of course, 
■he must have known that Moses would some time choose a wife, 
and how fortunate that, instead of a stranger, he had chosen her 
most intimate friend ! Sally was careless and thoughtless, to be 
sure, but she had a good, generous heart at the bottom, and she 
hoped she would love Moses at least as well as she did. And then 
she would always live with them, and think of any little things 
that Sally might forget. After all, Sauj was so much more 
capable and efficient a person than herself, so much more bustling 
and energetic — she would make, altogether, a better housekeeper, 
and, doubtless, a better wife for Moses. 

But then, it was so hard that he did not tell her about it. Was 
elie not his sister — ^bis confidant for all his childhood ; and why 
should he shut up his heart from her now? B\]Lt> tha,\i%\M^\Qas^ 


piard hanelf from being jealous; that would be mean and 

So Mara, in her seal of self-discipline, pushed on matteiii 
invited Sally to tea to meet Moses, and, when she came, left them 
alone together, while she busied herself in hospitable cares. Ske 
sent Moses with errands and commissions to Sally, which he nu 
bure to improve into protracted visits ; and, in short, no yoaog 
matchmaker ever showed more good- will to forward the union ol 
two chosen friends than Mara showed to unite Moses and Sally. 

So the flirtation went on all the summer, like a ship under M 
sail, with prosperous breezes ; and Mara, in the many hours tlol 
her two best friends were together, tried heroically to persosdi 
herself that she was not imhappy. She said to herself contimttOj 
that she never had loved Moses other than as a brother, aaii ] 
repeated and dwelt upon the fEu^t to her own mind with a perti- 
nacity which might have led her to suspect the reality of the £Mi| 
had she had experience to look closer. True, it was rather kxiely, 
she said; but that she was used to — she always had been, and 
always should be ; nobody would ever love her in return as sIiA 
loved — which sentence she did not analyse very closely, or she 
might have remembered l^lr. Adams and one or two others, who 
had professed more for her than she found herself able to retun. 
That general proposition about nobody is commonly found, if 
sifted to the bottom, to have specific relation to somebody, whose 
name never appears in the record. Nobody could have coiyec- 
tured, from Mara^s calm, gentle cheerfulness of demeanour, that 
any sorrow lay at the bottom of her heart ; she would not have 
owned it to herself. 

There are griefs which grow with years which have no nuurked 
beginnings, no especial dates; they are not events, but sk)W 
perceptions of disappointment, which bear down on the heart with 
a constant and equable pressure, like the weight of the atmosphere; 
and these things are never named or counted in words amoDg 
life's sorrows; yet through them, as through an unsuspected, 
inward wound, life, energy, and NigovxT, ^Vyw\^ bWd away, and 

VAftA*8 TRIALS. 245 

tibe pefBon never owning, even to themselves, the weight of the 
presBure, standing, to all appearance, fair and cheerfol, is still 
undermined with a secret wear of this inner cnirent, and ready to 
lUl with the first external pressure. There are persons often 
faconght into near contact by the relations of life, and bound to 
each other by a love so close that they are perfectly indispensable 
to each other, who yet act upon each other as a file upon a 
diamond, by a slow and gradual friction, the pain of which is so 
eqoaUe, so constantly diffused through life, as scarcely ever at any 
any time to force itself upon the mind as a reality. Such had 
been the history of the affection of Mara for Moses— it had been a 
deep, inward, concentrated passion that had almost absorbed all 
idf-oonsciousness, and made her keenly alive to all the moody^ 
WrtleBB, passionate changes of his nature ; it had brought with i * 
ikii craving for sympathy and return which such love ever wiU^ 
and yet it was fixed upon a nature so different and so uncompre- 
hending, that the action had for years been one of pain more than 

Even now, when she had him at home with her, and busied 
hendf with constant cares for him, there was a sort of disturbing, 
imquiet element in the history of every day. The longing for him 
to come home at night — ^the wish that he would stay with her — 
the uncertainty whether he would or would not go and spend the 
evening with Sally — the musing during the day over all that he 
had said and done the day before, were a constant interior excite- 
ment. For Moses, besides being in his moods quite variable and 
changeable, had also a good deal of the dramatic element in him^ 
and put on sundry appearances in the way of experiment. 

He would feign to have quarrelled with Sally, that he might 
detect whether Mara would betray some gladness ; but she only 
evinced concern, and a desire to make up the difficulty. He 
would discuss her character and her fitness to make a man happy 
in matrimony in the style that young gentlemen use who think 
their happiness a point of great consequence ; and Mara, always 
cool, and fmn, and sensible, would talk. "wiXk V^m \sl >3&kfo tsk^ 


maternal ttyle poBSible, and caution him against trifling vitih her 
airoctions. Then, again, he would be layish in praise of Sally's 
beauty, yivadty, and energy, and Alara woald join with the most 
apparently nnaffected delight. Sometimes he ventured, on the 
other side, to rally her on some future husband, and predict the 
days when all the attentions wliich she was daily bestowing oa 
him would be for another ; and here, as eyerywhere else, he fotud 
liis little spliiux perfectly inscrutable. Instinct teaches thB gia» 
bird, who hides her spotted eggs under long meadow grass, to 
creep timidly yards from their nest, and then fly up boldly in the 
wrong place ; and a like instinct teaches shy girls all kinds of 
unconscious stratagems when the one secret of their life ■ 
approached. They may be as truthful in all other things as the 
strictest puritan, but here they deceive by an infallible necessity. 

And, meanwhile, where was Sally Eittridge in all this mattert 
Was her heart in the least touched by the black eyes and long 
lashcs^who can say ? Had she a heart ? Well, Sally was a good 
girl. When one got sufficiently far down through the foam and 
froth of the surface to And what was in the depths of her nature, 
there was abundance there of good, womanly feeling — ^generous and 
strong, if one could but get at it. 

She was the best and brightest of daughters to the old Captain 
— ^whose accounts she kept, whose clothes she mended, whose 
dinner she often dressed and carried to him from loving choice; 
and Mrs. Eittridge regarded her housewifely accomplishments with 
pride, though she never spoke to her otherwise than in words of 
criticism and rebuke, as, in her view, an honest mother should who 
means to keep a flourishing sprig of a daughter within the limits of 
a proper humility. 

But as for any sentiment or love towards any person of the other 
sex, Sally had it not. Her numerous admirers were only so many 
subjects for the exercise of her dear delight in teasing ; and Moses 
Pennel, the last and most considerable, differed from the rest only 
in the fact that he was a match for her in this redoubtable art and 
Bcience; and this made the gam^ a\v(i -sR^ia ^\w3Vxvvi^V\\3eL\!iiscLalto» 


gctlier more stimulating than that she had cairicd ou with ac/ 
other of her admirers. 

For Moses could sulk and storm, for effect, and clear off aa 
briglit as Harpswell Bay after a thunder-storm ; for effect, also, 
Closes could play jealous — and make believe all those thousand and 
one shadowy nothings that coquettes, male and female, get up to 
carry their points wiih ; and so their quarrels and their makings- 
np were as manifold as the sea breezes that ruffled the ocean before 
the Captain's door. 

There is but one danger in play of this kind, and that is, that 
deep down in the breast of every slippery, frothy, elfish Undine 
deeps the germ of an unawakened soul, which suddenly, in the 
coarse (Xf some such trafficking with the outward shows and seem- 
ings of affection, may wake up, and make of the teasing, tricksy elf 
a sad and earnest-hearted woman — a creature of loves, and self- 
demaJs, and faithfulness unto death — ^in short, something altogether 
too good and too sacred to be trifled with. 

And when the man enters the game protected by a previous 
attachment which absorbs all his nature, and the woman awakes in 
all her depth and strength, to feel the real meaning of love and life, 
she finds that she has played at a terrible disadvantage. 

Is this mine lying dark and evil under the saucy little feet of 
our Sally ? Well, we should not, of course, be surprised some day 
to find it so. 


OcTOBEii is come, and among the black glooms of the pine forests 
flare out the scarlet branches of the rock maple, and the beech 
groves are all arrayed in gold, through wliich the sunlight streams 
in subdued richness. October is come with long, bright, hazy days, 
swathing in purple mists the rainbow brightness of the forests, and 
harmonising the otherwise gaudy and flaring colours into wondrous 
splendour. And Moses Fennel's ship is all built and ready wait- 
ing only a favourable day for her launching. 


And just at this moment Moses is sauntering home from Cap- 
tain Kittridge^s in company with Sally, for Mara has sent him to 
bring her to tea with them. Moses is in high spirits ; everything 
has succeeded to his wishes, and as the two walk along the high, 
hold, rocky shore, his eye glances out to the open ocean, where the 
sun is setting, and the fresh wind blowing^ and the white Bails 
flying, and already fancies himself a sea king commanding his own 
palace and going from land to land. 

^' There hasn^t been a more beautiful ship built here these twenty 
years," he says, in triumph, 

*'0h, ho, Mr. Conceit," said Sally; "that's only because it*8 
yours, now. Your geese are all swans. I wish you could have 
seen the Typhoon, that Ben Drummond sailed in I A real hand- 
some fellow he was. What a pity there ain't more like him I " 

** I don't enter on the merits of Ben Drummond's beauty," said 
Moses ; ** but I don't believe the Typhoon was one whit superior 
to our ship. Besides, Miss Sally, I thought you were going to take it 
under your special patronage, and let me honour it with your name.'* 

*' How absurd I You always will be talking about that. Why 
don't you call it after Mara ? " 

*' After Mara I " said Moses ; ** I don't want to ; it would not be 
appropriate. One wants a different kind of girl to name a ship 
after — something bold, and bright, and dashing." 

*' Thank you, sir ; but I prefer not to have my bold and dash- 
ing qualities immortalised in this way," said Sally. " Besides, sir, 
how do I know that you wouldn't run me on a rock the very first 
thing ? When I give my name to a ship, it must have an expe- 
rienced commander," she added, maliciously ; for she knew that 
Moses was especially vulnerable on this point. 

** As you please," said Moses, with heightened colour. ** Allow 
me to remark, that he who shall ever undertake to conunand the 
' Sally Kittridge ' will have need of all his experience, and then, 
perhaps, not be able to know the ways of the craft." 

" See him, now," said Sally, with a malicious laugh ; " we aro 
getting wrathy, are we? " 


' Not I," said Moees ; " it would cost altogether too mucli exer- 
to get angry at every teasmg thing you choose to say, Misa 
-. By-and-by, 1 shall be gone, and then won't your consci- 
trouble you ? ** 

My conscience is all easy, so far as you are concerned, sir. 
r self-esteem is too deep-rooted to suflfer much from my poor 
lips ; they produce no more impression than a cat-bird peck- 
it the cones of that spruce tree. Now, don't put your hand 
e your heart is supposed to be ; there's nobody at home there, 
know. There's Mara coming to meet us !" and Sally bounded 
ard to meet Mara with all those demonstrations of extreme 
ht which young girls are fond of showering on each other. 
It's such a beautiful ^evening,'' said Mara, ^* and we are all 
ch good spirits about Moses' ship, and I told him you must 
) down and hold counsel with us as to what was to be done 
t the launching; and the name, you know — ^that is to be 
led on. Are you going to let it be called after you?" 
^Not I, indeed I I should always be reading in the pap^ of 
ible accidents that had happened to the * Sally Kittridge.'" 
'Sally has so set her heart on my being unlucky," said Moses, 
kt I believe, if I make a prosperous voyage, the disappointment 
d injure her health." 

^She doesn't mean what she says," said Mara; ** and I think 
i are some objections in a young lady's name being given to a 

Then, I suppose, Mara," said Moses, ** that you would not 
yours either?" 

I would be glad to accommodate you in anything hut that," 
Mara, quietly; *'but," she added, **why need the ship be 
3d after anybody? A ship is such a beautiful, graceful thing, 
3uld have a fancy name." 
Well, suggest one," said Moses. 

Don't you remember," said Mara, " one Saturday afternoon, 
1 you, and I, and Sally launched your little ship down in the 
, after you bad come home from your tot vo^^i^'a ^\,>3Ckfe^^s5K^'*^ 


** Yuii and me round the world," said Sally. 

*'Aiitl you remember we called the ship the ^ Ariel/ ^^ 
Mara. *^ I propose that name for this.** 

" Capital 1 " said Sally. 

*^I bow to the decree," said Moses. 

*' I remember that time," said Sally ; ** and Mr. Moses bete 
promised then that he would build a ship, and take us two roood 
the world with him." 

Moses^ eyes fell upon Mara, as Sally said these words, with a 
Rort of subdued earnestness of expression which struck her. He mi 
really feeling very much about something under all the bantering 
disguise of his demeanour. Could it be that he felt unhappy ab(xA 
his pros]^)ects with Sally ? That careless liveliness of hers mi^ 
wound him, perhaps, now whoQ he felt that he was soon to leave 
her. For Mara was conscious herself of a deep under-current ot 
sadness as the time approached for that ship to sail that shoold 
carry Moses from her. In vain she looked into Sally's great 
Spanish eyes for any signs of a lurking softness, a tenderness con- 
cealed under her sparkling vivacity. Sally's eyes were admiraUa 
windows, of exactly the right size and colour for an earnest, tender 
spirit to look out of ; but just now there was nobody at the case- 
ment but a slippery elf, peering out in tricksy defiance. 

AVhen they arrived at the house, tea was waiting on the tablo 
for them. Mara fancied that Moses looked sad and pre-occupied as 
they sat down to the tea-table, which Mrs. Penndl had set forth 
ft?stively with the best china, and the finest table-cloth, and the 
choicest of sweetmeats. 

In fact, Moses did feel that sort of tumult and upheaving of the 
soul wliich a young man experiences when the great crisis cornea 
wliich is to plunge him into the struggles of manhood. It is a time 
when he wants sympathy, and is grated upon by uncomprehending 
moniment; and therefore his answers to Sally grew brief, and 
even harsh, at times ; and Mara, sometimes perceived him looking at 
horsolf with a singular fixedness of expression, though he withdrew 
his eyes whenever she turned \io\a \/o \ooV ou \xvca.. 


Like many anotBer little woman, she had fixed a theory about 
ilie feelings of her friends, into which she was steadily interweaving 
lII the facts she saw. Sally mtist love Moses, because she had known 
ler from childhood as a good, afifectionate girl, and it was impossible 
tliat she could have been going on with Moses as she had for the 
ast six months without loving him. She must, evidently, have 
leen that he cared for her ; and in how many ways had she shown 
lihat she liked his society and him ? But then, evidently, she did 
3ot entirely understand him ; and Mara felt a little womanly self- 
pluming on the thought that she knew him so much better. She 
ita resolved that she would talk with Sally about it ; show her that 
die was disappointing Moses, and hurting his feeliugs. ^'Yes,^' 
die said to herself, ^^ Sally has a kind heart, and her coquettish 
desire to conceal from him the extent of her affection ought now to 
pre way to the outspoken tenderness of real love 1 " 

So Mara pressed Sally with the old-times request to stay and 
deep with her ; for these two, the only young girls in so lonely a 
neighbourhood, had no means of excitement or dissipation beyond 
this occasional sleeping together — ^by which is meant, of course, 
}jiDg awake all night, talking. 

When they were alone together in their chamber, Sally let 
iown her long black hair, and stood with her back to Mara brush- 
ing it. Mara sat looking out of the window, where the moon was 
naking a wide sheet of silver sparkling water. Everything was so 
][uiet, that the restless dash of the tide could be plainly heard. 

Sally was rattling away with her usual gaiety. 

^^And so the launching is to come off next Thursday; what 
hall you wear?" 

*' I'm sure I haven't thought," said Mara. 

*' Well, I shall try to finish my blue merino for the occasion 
jVliat fun it will be I I never was on a ship when it was launched, 
ind I think it will be something perfectly splendid." 

" But doesn't it sometimes make you feel sad to think that, after 
ill this, Moses will leave us, to be gone so long? " 

*' What do I care ? " said Sally, tofiBing la««k \\gs lQ?a% \iakt 


M she brushed it, and then stopping to examine one of her 

** Sally, dear, yon often speak in that way ; but really 
seriously, you do yourself great injustice. Tou could not cert 
have been going on as you haye these six months past with a 
you did not care for." 

"Well, I do care for him, ^8ort o'," said Sally; "but la 
any reason I should break my heart for his going ? thaVs too 
for any man." 

** But, Sally, you must know that Moses loves you ? •* 

*< I'm not so sure," said Sally, freakishly taming her hea( 

" If he did not, why has he sought yon so much, and 
every opportunity to be with you? Tm sure Tve been lefl 
alone, hour after hour, when my only comfort was, that it wi 
cause my two best firiends loved each other ; as I know th^ 
some time love some one better than they do me." 

The most practised self-control must fail some time ; and I 
voice faltered on these last words, and she put her hands ov 
eyes. Sally turned quickly and looked at her; then, givii 
hair a sudden fold round her shoulders, and running to her i 
she kneeled down on the floor by her and put her arms roui 
waist, and looked up into her face with an air of more gravit 
she commonly used. 

" Now, Mara, what a wicked, inconsiderate fool I have 1 
she said. " Did you feel lonesome ? did you care ? I on 
have seen that, but I'm selfish — I love admiration — and I 1 
have some one to flatter me, and run after me, and so IV 
going on and on in this silly way. But I didn't know you c 
indeed I didn't — ^you are such a deep little thing, nobody ev 
tell what you feel. I never shall forgive myself if you havi 
lonesome ; for you are worth five hundred times as much as 
You really do love Moses ; I don't." 

" I do love him as dear as a brother," said Mara. 

**Dear iSddJestick I " said Ba\\y •, ^'^ Vsv^ \a Vss^\ ^^d ^ 


person loves aU they can, it isn^t of much use to talk so. iVe been 
m wicked sinner, that I haye. Love ? do you suppose / would bear 
irith Moses Fennel — all his ins and outs, and ups and downs, and 
1)6 always putting him before myself in eyerything I did ? No, I 
^Douldn't — ^I haven't it in me — ^but you have. He's a sinner, too, 
d deserves to get me for a wife ; but, Mara, I have tormented 

Xum well— there's some comfort in that." 
"'.' ^^ It's no comfort to me, dear Sally. I sec his heart is set on 

^ I ■ I 

3^ I the happiness of his life depends on you, and that he is pained 

Mod hurt when you give him only cold, trifling words, when he 

3ieeds real, true love. It is a serious thing, dear, to have a strong 

\ mn set his whole heart on you. It will do him a great good, or a 

,.|(teat evil, and you ought not to make light of it." 

" Oh, pshaw I Mara, you don't know these follows — ^they are 
ODly playing games with us ; if they once catch us they have no 
niercy, and, for one, here's a child that isn't going to be caught. 
I can see plain enough that Moses Fennel has been trying to get 
me in love with him, but he doesn't love me — no, he doesn't," said 
Sally, reflectively. " He only wants to make a conquest of me, 
and Pm just the same— I want to make a conquest of him ; at 

least, I have been wanting to, but now I see it's a false, wicked 

kind of way to do as we ha' been doing." 

"And is it really possible, Sally, that you don't love him?" 

said Mara, her large, serious eyes looking into Sally's. " What ! 

be with him so much, seem to like him so much, look at h\m as I 

havei seen you do, and not love him? " 

" I can't help my eyes, they will look so," said Sally, hiding her 

face in Mara's lap, with a sort of coquettish consciousness. *^ I 

tell you I've been silly and wicked, but he's just the same, 


" And you have worn his ring all summer ? " 

^* Yes, and he has worn mine, and I have a lock of his hair, 

and he has a lock of mine, yet I don't believe he cares for them a 

bit. Oh I his heart is safe enough, it he has any — ^it isn't with mc, 

that I know." 


** But if you found it were, Sally ? Suppose you found that, 
after all, you wore the one love and hope of his life — ^that all h 
was doing and thinking was for you — ^that he was labouring, and 
toiling, and leaving home, so that he might some day offer yon a 
heart and home, and be your best firiend for life? Perhaps ha 
dares not tell you how he really does feel." 

**It's no such thing! it's no such thing I** said Sally, lift ^|i 
up her head, with her eyes full of tears, which she dashed aDgriJ^j 
away. " AVhat am I crying for? I hate him I Pm glad M{ 
going away. Lately it has been such a trouble to me to bsnj 
things go on so. Pm really getting to dislike him. You are tin] 
one he ought to love. Perhaps, all this time, you are the one m 
does love," said Sally, with sudden energy, as if a new thought had 
dawned in her mind. 

" Oh, no ! He does not even love me as he once did, when n 
were children. He is so shut up in himself^ so reserved. I hwf 
nothing about what passes in his heart." 

"No more docs anybody," said Sally. " Moses Pennel isn't one 
that says and does things straightforward because he feels so, hot 
he says and does them to see what you will do ; that's his way. 
Nobody knows why he has been going on with me as he has— Iw 
has his own reasons, doubtless, as I have had mine." 

" Ho has admired you very much, Sally, and praised you to 
mo very warmly. He thinks you are so handsome. I coiJd tell 
you ever so many things he has said about you. He knows, as! 
do, that you arc a more enterprising, practical sort of body than I 
am, too. Everybody thinks you are engaged. I have heard it 
spoken of everywhere." 

" Everybody is mistaken, then, as usual," said Sally. ** Perhaps 
Aunt Roxy was in the right of it, when she said Moses would never 
be in love with anybody but himself." 

" Aunt Roxy has always been prejudiced and unjust to Moaes,'* 
said Mara, her cheeks flushing. " She never liked him from a 
child, and she never can be made to see anything good in him. I that he has a deep heart — e^ h^Xam^ \}aa.\. ^xw^ ^«5R.U.Qn. and 


hy ; and it is only because he is so sensitive that he is so 
kI, and conceals his real feelings so much. He has a noble, 
ieart; and I believe he truly loves you, Sally. It must 

illy rose from the floor, and went on arranging her hair 

)ut speaking. Something seemed to disturb her mind. She 

er lip, and threw down her brush and comb violently. 

ji the clear depths of the little square of looking-glass, a face 

ed into hers whose eyes were perturbed, as if \i ith the shadows 

ome coming inward storm — the black brows were knit, and the 

i quivered. S]ie drew a long breath, and burst out into a loud 


" What are you laughing at now ? '' said ^iara, who stood, in 
T white night-dress, by the window, with her hair falling in 
^Iden waves about her face. 

" Oh I because these fellows are so funny," said Sally; " it's such 
on to see their actions. Come, now,'' she added, turning to Mara, 
* donH look so grave and sanctifled. It's better to laugh than cry 
about things, any time. It's a great deal better to be made hard- 
bearted, like me, and not care for anybody, than to be like you, 
Tor instance. The idea of any one being in love is the drollest 
thing to me. I haven't the least idea how it feels. I wonder if 
ever I shall be?" 

** It will come to you in its time, Sally." 
*' Oh, yes. I suppose it's like the chicken-pox and whooping- 
X)ugh," said Sally; *'one of the things to be gone through with, 
md rather disagreeable while it lasts — so I hope to put it off as long 
IS possible." 

" Well, come," said Mara, " we must not sit up all night." 
After the two girls were nestled into bed, and the light out, 
Instead of the usual brisk chatter, there fell a great silence between 
bhem. The fiill, round moon cast the reflection of the window on 
the white bed, and the ever restless moan of the sea became more 
audible in the fixed stiUness. The two faces, both young and fair. 
yet so different in their expression, lay each ft\i\W. oii \\s» ^^'^'^ \*Oc>ssa 


wide open eyes gleaming out in the shadow like mystical genii 
Each was breathiug softly, as if afraid of disturbing the other; at 
last Sally gave an impatient movement. 

** How lonesome the sea sounds in the night," she said; *^I wi^ 
it would ever be still." 

" I like to hear it," said Mara. " When I was in Boston, for i 
while I thought I could not sleep, I used to miss it so much.^* 

There was another silence, which lasted so long that each gnl 
thought the other asleep, and moved softly ; but at a resuess moie* 
mcnt from Sally, Mara spoke again. 

*' Sally — you asleep ? " 

** No ; I thought you were." 

'* I wanted to ask you— did Moses ever say anything to yoi 
about tne f You know I told you how much he said about you." 

" Yea — ^he asked me once if you were engaged to Mr. Adams." 

^^ And what did you tell him ? " said Mara, with increaasg 

" Well, I only plagued him. I sometimes made him think yon 
were, and sometimes that you were not ; and then, again, thatthoe 
was a deep mystery in hand — but I praised and glorified Mr. Adams, 
and told him what a splendid match it would be, and put on any 
little bits of embroidery here and there that I could lay hands on. 
I used to make him sulky and gloomy for a whole evening some- 
times that way— it was one of the best weapons I had." 

'' Sally, what does make you love to tease people so?" said 

^' Why you know the hymn says — 

•* ' Lot dogs delight to bark and bite. 
For God hath made them so ; 
Let bears and lions growl and fighrt. 
For 'tis their nature to/ 

That's all the account I can give of ifc." 

** But I never can rest easy a moment when T see I am makinj 
A person uncomfortable," said Mara. 


'^ Well, I don't tease anybody but the men. I don't tease father, 
rr mother, or you — but men are fair game ; they are such thummy 
knndering creatures, and we can confuse them so/* 

" Take care, Sally — ^it's playing with edge tools ; you may lose 
y9iir heart some day in this kind of game." 

" Never you fear," said Sally ; " but aren't you sleepy ?— let's 
fo to sleep." 

Both girls turned their faces resolutely in opposite directions, 
- ud remained for an hour with their large eyes looking out into the 
moonlit chamber, like the fixed stars over Harpswell Bay. At last 
deep drew softly down the fiingy curtains* 


In the plain, simple regions we are describing, where the sea is 
the great avenue of active life, and the pine forests the great source 
of wealth, ship-building is an engrossing interest, and there is no 
fite that calls forth the community like the launching of a vessel. 

And no wonder, for what is there belonging to this work-a-day 
world that has such a never-failing fund of poetry and grace as a 
ihip? A ship is a beauty and a mystery wherever we see it. Its 
white wings touch the regions of the unknown and the imaginative ; 
they seem to us full of odours of quaint, strange foreign shores, 
where life, we fondly dream, moves in brighter currents than the 
muddy, tranquil tides of every day. 

Who sees one bound outward, with her white breasts swelling 
and heaving, as if with a reaching expectancy, and does not feel 
his own heart swell with a longing impulse to go with her to 
fur-off shores? 

Even at dingy, crowded wharves, amid the stir and tumult of 
great cities, the coming in of a ship is an event that never can lose 
its interest. But in these romantic shores of Maine, where all is 
so wild and still, and the blue sea lies embraced in the arms of 
dark, solitary forests, the sudden incoming of a ship from a distant 
voy^ige is a sort of romance. 


Who that has Btood by the blue waters of Middle Bay. cn- 
ginlled as it is by soft slopes of green fEuming land, intercbaiiger'! 
here and there with heavy Ullows of forest trees, or rocky, pine- 
crowned promontories, has not felt that sense of seclusion anc 
solitude which is so delightful? And then what a wonder! b 
comes a ship from China, drifting like a white cloud ! 

The gallant creature! How the waters hiss and foam befon 
her ! With what a great, free, generous plash she throws out he 
anchors, as if she said a cheerful *' well done ! " to some glorioa 
work accomplished. The very life and spirit of strange, romanti 
lands comes with her! Suggestions of sandal wood and spio 
breathe through the pine forests ! She is an oriental •queen, witi 
hands full of mystical gifts ! All her garments smell of myrrh aiw 
cassia, out of the ivory palaces whereby they have made her glad 
No wonder men have loved ships like brides, and that there hav 
been found brave, rough hearts that, in fatal wrecks, chose ratbe 
to go down with their ocean-love than to leave ber in the ha 
throes of her death agony ! 

A ship-building and ship-sailing community has an unconscioi 
poetry ever underlying its existence. Exotic ideas from foreig 
lands relieve the trite monotony of life. The ship-owner lives i 
communion with the whole world, and is less likely to fs 
into the petty commonplaces that infest the routine of inlai 

Never arose a clearer and lovelier October morning than th 
which was to start the Ariel on her watery pilgrimage. 

Moses had risen, while the stais were yet twinkling over the 
own images in Middle Bay, to go down and see that everythL 
was right ; and in all the houses that we know in the vicini 
everybody woke with the one thought of being ready to go to t 

Mrs. Fennel and Mara were also up by starlight, busy over t 

provisions for the ample cold collation that was to be spread in 

house adjoining to the scene, the materials for whicli they wc 

packing into baskets, covered w\t\i"^\iei\i c\o\>i\^^ ^^^^^ "l^-^ '^Jw^'^ii. 


dl-boat, which lay witliin stone^s throw of tbo door, in the 
■»)righteniDg dawn. 

It had been agreed that the Fennels and the Kittridges should 
oroes together in this boat, with their contributions of good 

The Kittridges, too, had been astir with the dawn, intent on 
"^heir qnota of the festive preparations, in which Dame Kittridge*s 
JionBewifely reputation was involved; for it had been a disputed 
Jfatit in the neighbourhood whether she or IMrs. Fennel made the 
HieBt dough-nuts, and, of course, with this fact before her mind, 
Iwr efforts in this line had been all but superhuman. 

The Captain skipped in and out in high feather, occasionally 
jRDching Sally's cheek, and asking her if she was going as cxiptain 
flr mate upon tho vessel after it was launched, for which he got in 
letum a fillip of his sleeve, or a sly twitch of his coat tails ; for 
Silly and her old fj&ther were on romping terms with each other 
fiom early childhood — a thing which drew frequent lectures from 
the alwajrs exhorting Mrs. Kittridge. 

" Such levity I" she said, as she saw Sally in full chase after his 
retreating figure, in order to wreak revenge for some sly allusions 
he had whispered in her ear. 

"Sally Kittridge, Sally Kittridge ! " she called; "come back 
this minute I What are you about ? I should think your father 
was old enough to know better." 

" Lawful sakes. Folly 1 it kinder renews one's youth to get a 
new ship done," said the Captain, skipping in at another door. 
" Sort o' puts me in mind o' mine that I went out cap'en in when 
I was jist beginning to court you, as somebody else is courtin' our 

"Now, father I" said Sally, threateningly; "what did I tell 
you ? " 

**Tt's really lemanchoUy," said the Captain, "to think how it 
docs distress gals to talk to 'em 'bout the fellers, when they a'n*t 
thinkin' o' nothin' else all the times. Why, they can't laugh ynth' 
outeayjn\ *he, he, ho!^ " 


" Now, father, you know I've told you five hundred t 
I don't care a cent for Moses Fennel — ^that he's a hateful ci 
said Sally, looking very red and determined. 

** Yes, yes," said the Captain, " I take. That are's th 
you've been a wearin' the ring he gin you, and them ribbi 
you've got on your neck this blessed minit ; and why 
giggittcd off to singin'-school, and Lord knows where wi\ 
all summer — that are's clear now." 

**• But, father," said Sally, getting redder and more earoei 
don't care for him, and I've told him so. I keep telling him sc 
he will run after me." 

^ Haw, haw I " laughed the Captain ; '* he will, will he ? 
BO, Sally ; that are's jist the way your ma there talked to me, 
it kind o' 'couraged me along. I knew that gals always has to 
read back'ard, jist like the writin' in the Barbary States." 

'^ Captain Kittridge, loUl you stop such ridiculous talk," 8B 
his helpmeet, '* and jist carry this 'ere basket of cold chicken doi 
to the landin', agin' the Fennels come round in the boat ? A] 
you must step spry, for there's two more baskets a comin'." 

The Captain diouldered the basket and walked towards the t 
-with it, and Sally retired to her own little room, to hold a farev 
consultation with her mirror before she went. 

You will, perhaps, think from the conversation that you hei 
the other night that Sally now will cease all thought of coquett 
allurement in her acquaintance with Moses, and cause him to e 
by an immediate and marked change, her entire indifferei 
Frobably, as she stands thoughtfully before her mirror, she 
meditating on the propriety of laying aside the ribbons he g 
her ; perhaps she will alter that arrangement of her hair, whid 
one that he himself had particularly dictated as most beoomin^ 
the character of her face. She opens a drawer, that looks HI 
flower-garden, all full of little knots of pink, and blue, and i 
and various fancies of the toilet, and looks into it reflectively. 
looses the ribbon from her hair, and chooses another ; but M< 
^are her that, too^ and said, she TeTnfttrkb^x^,''''^«^»'«\«sa.i&!fc'^ 


hU, he Bhoiild know she had been thinking of him." Sallj is 
tally yet— as full of sly dashes of coquetry as a tulip is of 

'' There is no reason I should make myself look like a fright 
Mcause I don't care for him," she says ; ^^ besides, after all that he 
lias said, he ought to say more. He ought, at least, to give me a 
shance to say no — ^he shall, too ! " said the gipsy, almost winking 
it the bright, elfish face in the glass. 

" Sally Kittridge ! Sally Kittridge ! " called her mother; *'how 
long will you stay prinking ? Come down this minit ! " 

"• Law, now, mother I gals must prink afore such times ; it's 
SB natural as for hens to dress their feathers afore a thunder-storm,'' 
paid the Captain. 

Sally at last appeared, all in a flutter of ribbons and scarfs, 
whose bright, high colours assorted well with the ultramarine blue 
of her dress, and the vivid pomegranate hue of her cheeks ; and the 
fionily party made the best of their way to the shore. The boat, 
witii its white sails flapping, was balancing and curtseying up and 
down, and in the stern sat Mara. Her shining white straw hat 
trimmed with blue ribbons, set off her golden hair and her pink- 
white complexion. The dark, even pencilling of her eye-brows, 
md. the beauty of the brow above, the brown, translucent clearness 
rf her thoughtful eyes, made her face striking, even with its extreme 
lelicacy of tone. She was unusually animated and excited, and 
ler cheeks had a rich bloom of that pure, deep rose-colour which 
lushes up in fair complexions under excitement, and her eyes more 
han usual of a kind of intense expression, for which they had 
dwaysbeen remarkable. All the deep, secluded yearnings of a 
ensitive, repressed nature were looking out of them, giving that 
ilent pathos which every one has felt at times in such eyes. 

"Now, bless that are gal," said the Captain, when he saw her. 
* Our Sally here's handsome, but she^s got the real New Jerusalem 
ook, she has. She looks like them that wear the fine linen, clean 
ind white, in the Revelations." 

" Captain Kittridge, don't be a maVLvn! ^1qc:>\<A ^^xsc^i^^S^x!;^ 



110 girl, at your time o' life," said Mrs. Kittridge, speaking imte*-^ '^ 
luT l»reath in a uipping, energetic tone, for they were coming too 
near the boat to speak very loud. " Good morning Mis' ?m^ 
she added, aloud ; "weVe got a good day, and a mercy it iatt 
'.Member, when wo launched the North Star, that it rained 
all the niornin', and the water got into the baskets when we if* 
fetcliiu' the things «)ver, and made a sight o' pester." 

^* Yes," said ^Irs. Fennel, with an air of placid sati 
*• everything seems to be going right about this vessel." 

!Mr8. Kittridge and Sally were soon accommodated with 
and Zcphaniah Fennel and the Captain began manning sail, 
day was one of those perfect gems of days which are to be 
only in the jewel casket of October — a day neither hot nor coft 
with an air so clear, that every distant pine-tree top stood oat i*^ 
vivid separateness, and every woody point and rocky island seeni 
cut iu crystalline clearness against the sky. There was so brisk a 
breeze, that the boat slanted quite to the water's edge on one sidfi'i 
and Mara leaned over, and pensively drew her little pearly hand 
through the waters, and thought of the days when she and Moea 
took this sail alone together, she in her pink &un>bonuet, and he i& 
his round struw hat, with a tin dinner pail between them— and 
now, to-day, the ship of their childish dreams was to be launcbei 
That luimching was something she xegarded almost with super- 
stitious awe. The ship built on one element, but designed to have 
its life iu another, seemed an image of the soul, framed and fash- 
ioned with many a weary hammer stroke in this life, but findbg 
its true element only when it sails out into the ocean of eternity. 

Such was her thought as she looked down the clear, translucent 
depths ; but would it have been of any use to try to utter it to 
anybody ? — to Sally Kittridge, for example, who sat all in a cheer- 
ful rustle of bright ribbons beside her, and who would have shown 
her white teeth all around at such a suggestion, and said, '' Now, 
Mara, who but you would ever have thought of that ? " 

But there are souls sent into this world who seem always to 
have mptcriovB affinities for the inN*m\A^ «^tv^ ^^ \w&jvsssrtv^ >?:ho 


face of everythiDg beautiful through a thin veil of mystery 
iness. The Germans call this yearning of spirit home-sick- 
le dim remembrances of a soul once affiliated to some higher 

of whose lost brightness all things fait aro the vague 
ers. As Mara looked pensively into the water, it seemed to 
t every incident of life came up out of its depths to meet 
ler own £eu>e, reflected in a wavering image, sometimes 
itself to her use in the likeness of the pale lady of her child- 
^ho seemed to look up to her from the waters with dark 
eyes of tender loDging. Once or twice this dreamy effect 
► vivid, that she shivered, and drawing herself up from the 
tried to take an interest in a very minute account which 
ittridge was giving of the way to make corn fritters, which 
taste exactly like oysters. The closing direction, about the 
,y of mace, Mrs. Kittridge felt was too sacred for common 
id whispered it into Mrs. Penners bonnet, with a knowing 
i a look from her black spectacles which would not have 
ad for a priestess of Dodona in giving out an oracle. In 
;ret direction about the mace lay the whole history of corn 
. Who can say what consequences might ensue from cast- 
a an unguarded manner before the world? 
1 now the boat, which has rounded Harpswell Point, is skin>- 
cross towards the head of Middle Bay, where the new ship 

distantly discerned standiug upon the ways, and moving 
\ of people walking up and down her decks, or liiiiog the 
1 the vicinity. 

sorts of gossipping and neighbourly chit-chat is being inter- 
d in the little world assembliog there, 
ha'n't seen the Pennels nor the Kittridges yet," said Aunt 
whose little roly-poly figure was made illustrious in her best 
lon-coloured, dyed silk. " There's Moses i?ennel a goin' up 
e ladder. Dear me, what a beautiful feller he is ! It's a pity 
b a goin' to marry Mara Lincoln, after all." 
^uey, do hush up," said Miss Roxy, frowning sternly down 
under the shadow of a preternatural black ^tare.'^ bow^aV 



trimmed with large bows of Uack ribbon, which sat up abo 
mc^iair curls like a helmet. ^ Don't be gettin* sentim^ital, 
whateyer else you get, and talkin' like Miss Emily Sewell 
match-makin* ; if aDything rises on my stomach, it*s that ta 
As to that are Moses Fennel, folks a*n^ so certain as they 
what he'll do. SaUy Kittridge may think he's goin* to ha 
because he's been foozliDg round with her all summer ; an 
Kittridge may find she's mistaken, that's all." 

^^ Yes," said Mias Ruey, '^ I remember, when I was a ( 
Aunt Jerushy Hopkins used to dwell on this Scriptur', ^ Ti 
three things which are too wonderful for me — ^yea, four, ^ 
know not — ^the way of an eagle in the air, the way of a 
upon a rock, the way of a ship in the sea, and the way of 
with a maid.' She used to say it as a kind o' caution to m 
she used to think Abram Peters was bein' attentive to me ; s 
often reflected what a muasy it was that it never came to as 
for he's a poor drunken cre'tur' now ! " 

" Well, for my part," said Miss Roxy, fixing her eyes 
boat, which was at the land, '^ I should say the ways of a uu 
a man was full as particular as any of the rest of 'em." 

" Do look at Sally Kittridge now ! There's Tom Hiers s 
on her out o' the boat ; and did you see the look she gii 
Fennel as she went by him ? Wal, Moses has got I^Iara 
arm. There's a gal wuth six-and-twenty o' the other. Do 
ribbins, and the scarfs, and the furbelows, and the way i 
Sally Kittridge handles her eyes. She's one that one fellt 
never enough for 1 " 

Mara's heart beat fast when the boat touched the she 
Closes and one or two other young men came to assist 

Never had he looked more beautiful than at this momem 
flushed with excitement and satisfaction, he stood on th 
Avith his straw hat off, and his black curls flowing in the sea 
He looked at Sally with a glance of frank admiration, as si 
there; dropjmg her long blaok Aashea oves \\<5k \sri^^ <ibfi« 


ooqaetiishly looking out under them ; bat she stepped forward with 
ft little energy of movement, and took the offered band of Tom 
Hiers, who was gazing at her too with undisguised rapture ; and 
Moses, stepping into the boat, helped Mrs. Fennel on shore, and 
then took Mara on his arm, looking her over as he did so with 
ft glance fistr less assured and direct than ho had given to 

*' You won't be afraid to climb the ladders, Mara ? " he said. 

** Not if you help me," she said. 

Sally and Tom Hiers had already walked on towards the vessel, 
she ostentatiously chatting and laughing with him. Moses' brow 
ckmded a little, and Mara noticed it. 

Moses thought he did not care for Sally. He knew that the 
little hand that was now lying on his arm was the one he wanted, 
and yet he felt vexed when he saw her walk off triumphantly with 
another: it was the dog-in-the-manger feeling, which possesses 
coquettes of both sexes. 

SaUy, on all former occasions, had shown a marked preference 
for him, and professed supreme indifference to Tom Hiers. 

^^ It is all well enough," he said to himself, and he helped Msltsl 
up the ladders with the greatest deference and teudemess ; " this 
little woman is worth ten such girls as Sally, if one only could get 
her heart. 

" Here we are on our ship, Mara ! " he said, as he lifted her over 
the last barriers, and set her down on the deck. " Look over there I 
Do you see Eagle Island? Did you dream, when we used to go 
over there and spend the day, that you ever would be on my ship, 
as you are to-day ? You won't be afraid, will you, when the ship 

" I'm too much of a sea-girl to fear anything that sails in 
water," said Mara, with enthusiasm. **What a splendid ship! 
How nicely it all looks ! " 

*' Come, let me take you over it," said Moses, " and show you 
my cabin." 

Theyr disappeared below stairs. 


^leanwhile, the graceful little veBsel was the subject of yariooi 
coiniuouts to the crowd of spectators below ; and the datter of 
workiueii's hammers, busy in some of the last preparations, could 
yet be heard, like a shower of hailstones, under her. 

^^ I hope the ways are well greased," said old Captain EldritcL 
'* '^ [ember how the John Peters stuck in her ways for want of thor 
K'in* weU greased." 

" Don't you remember the Grand Turk, that keeled ovar five 
minutes after she was laimched? " snid the thin, quavering voice of 
^liss Ruey. " There was just such a company of thoughtless yoong 
trcatures aboard as there is now." 

*'Woll, there warn't nobody hurt," said Captain Kittridge. 
" If ;Mis* Kittridge would let me, I'd be gkd to go aboard this 'ere, 
and be launched with 'em." 

*' I tell the Captain he's too old to be climbing round and mbdn' 
uith young folks' frolics," said Mrs. Kittridge. 

'' I s'pose, Cap'n Pennel, you're sure that the ways is all 
1 ight ? ' said Captain Broad, returning to the old subject. 

"Oh, yes! it's all done as well as hands can do it," said 
Zepbaniah. "Moses has beeu here since starlight this monuDg, 
uud IVfoses has pretty good faculty about such matters." 

"AVhere's Mr. Sewell and IVIiss Emily?" said Miss Buey. 
"Oil, there they are! over on that pile of rocks. They get a 
pretty fair view there." 

Mr. Sewell, with Miss Emily, was sitting under a cedar-tree, 
with two or three others, on a projecting point, whence they could 
have a clear view of the launching. They were so near that they 
could distinguish clearly the figures on deck, and see Moses, 
etanding with his hat off, the wind blowing his hair, talking 
earnestly to the golden-haired little woman on his arm. 

" It is a launch into life for him," said Mr. Sewell, in a tone of 
suppressed feeling. 

" Yes, and he has Mara on his arm," said Miss Emily ; " that's 
as it should be. Who is that that Sally Kittridge is flirting with 
ffow ? Ohf Tom Hiers I WeW, Wa ^ocA ^tiow^ lot >ae^\ Why 


dou't she take him ? " said Miss Emily, in her zeal jogging her 
brother^s elbow. 

"I'm sure, Emily, I don't know," Baid Mr. Sewell, drily. 
* Perhaps he won't be taken." 

"Don't you think Moses looks handsome ? " said Miss Emily. 
** I declare there is something romantic and Spanish about him. 
Don't you think so, Theophilus ? " 

" Yes, I think so," said her brother, quietly, looking externally 
tltt meekest and most matter-of-fact of persons ; but, deep within 
tea, a voice sighed, " Poor Dolores ! Be comforted. Your boy is 
kautiful and prosperous ! " 

" There ! there I " said Ikliss Emily. " I believe she is starting 1 " 
All eyes of the crowd were now fixed on the ship. The sound 
of hammers stopped ; the workmen were seen flying in every direc- 
tion to gain good positions to see her go — that sight so often seen on 
those shores, yet to which use can never dull the most insensible. 

First came a slight, almost imperceptible, movement — ^then a 
^ow and stately slide — then a swift, exultant rush, a dash into the 
hissing waters, and the air was rent with "hurras I " as the beau- 
tiful ship went floating far out on the blue waters, where her fair 
life was henceforth to be. 

Mara was leaning on Moses' arm at the moment the ship began 
to move ; but, in the instant of the last dizzy rush, she felt his arm 
go tightly round her, holding her so close that she could hear the 
beating of his heart. 

" Hurrah ! " he exclaimed, letting go his hold the moment the 
ship floated free, and swinging his hat in answer to the hats, 
scarfs, and handkerchiefe which fluttered from the crowd on the 
shore. His eyes sparkled with a proud hght, as he stretched 
himself upward, raising up his head, and throwing back his 
shoulders, with a triumphant movement. He looked like a young 
sea-king just crowned ; and the fact is the less wonderful, therefore, 
that Mara felt her heart throb as she looked at him, and that a 
treacherous throb of the same nature shook the breezy ribbons thiit 
fluttered over the careless heart of Sally, 


A handsome young learcaptain, treading the deck of Iob owb 
vessel, is iu his place and time a prince. Moses looked haughtily 
across at Sally, and there passed a sort of half-laughing, defiani 
ilash of eyes between them. He looked at Mara, who could Dok 
certainly have known what was in her eyes at this moment— «& 
expression that made his heart give a great shout, and made hia 
wonder if he saw aright ; but it was gone a nument after, as afl 
gathered around, in a knot, exchanging congratulations on tiie 
fortunate way in which the afiSur had gone off. Then came tks 
launching in boats to go back to the collation on shoie^ where iren 
congratulations and high merry-makings for the space of one or 
two hours. And thus was fulfilled the first part of the childreo^ 
Saturday afternoon prediction. 


Moses was now within a few days of the time of his sailing, and 
yet the distance between him and Mara seemed greater than ever. 
It is astonishing when two people are once started on a wrong 
uuderstanding with each other, how near they may live, how inti- 
niate they may be, how many things they may have in common^ 
how many words they may speak, while yet there lies a gnU 
between them that neither cross — a reserve that neither explore. 

Like most shy girls, Mara became more shy the more really she 
understood the nature of her own feelings. The conversation with 
Sally had opened her eyes to the secret of her own heart, and she 
had a guilty feeling as if what she had discovered must be discovered 
by every one else. Yes, it was clear she loved Moses in a way 
that made him, as she thought, more necessary to her happineBB 
than she could ever be to his — in a way that made it impossible to 
tliiuk of him as wholly and for life devoted to another without a 
constant inner conflict. 

In vain had been all the little stratagems practised upon her- 
self, the whole summer long, to prove to herself that she was glad 
that tlie choice had fallen upon ^aW^ . ^\v^ «a.^ Ow^iNtl'^ enough 

MABa's KYKS opened to nER nKAllT'S SECRET. 269 

■oir that she was not glad ; that there was no woman or girl living, 

knrever dear, who coald come for life between him and her, 

without casting on her heart the shuddering shadow of an 

^lipse. V 

But now the truth was plain to herself, her whole force was 

: JSnxAed towards the keeping her secret. ^* I may suffer,^* she 

-.iAonght, "but I will have strength not to be silly and weak. 

.. - .Hobody shall know, nobody shall dream it, and in the long time 

:-[ -:- ttit he is away I shall have strength given me to overcome.** 

ij ^ So Mara put on her cheerfullest, most matter-of-fact kind of 

^ . ftee, plunged into the making of shirts and knitting of stockings, 

J ~ <nd talked of the coming voyage with such a total absence of any 

concern, that Moees began to think that, after all, there could be 

^ no depth to her feelings, or that the deeper ones were all absorbed 

^' by some one else. 

" You really seem to enjoy the prospect of my going away," 
aaid he to her one morning, as she was energetically busying herself 
With her preparations. 

" Well, of course you know your career must begin — you must 
Uaake your fortune ; and it is pleasant to think how everything is 
^ping for you." 

*^ One likes, however, to be a little regretted," said Moses, in a 
tone of pique. 

"A little regretted!" Mara*s heart beat at the words; but 
her hypocrisy was well practised: she put down the rebellious 
throb, and, assuming a look of open sisterly friendliness, said quite 
naturally, " Why, we shall all miss you, of course." 

" Of course ? " said Moses. " One would be glad to be missed 
some other way than ' of course.^ " 

^^ Oh, as to that, make yourself easy,** said Mara ; " we shall 
aJl be dull enough, when you are gone, to content the most 

Still she spoke not, stopping her stitching, and raising her 
soft, brown eyes with a frank, open look into Moses*. No tremor, 
not even of an eyelid. 


" You men must have everyihing," she continued, gaily; "the 
euterpme, the adventure, the novelty, the pleasure of feeling tla* 
you are something and can do something in this world; aod 
beside all this, you want the satisfaction of knowing that iw 
women are following in chains behind your triumphal car." 

There was a dash of bitterness in this, which was a ran 
ingredient in Mara's conversation. 

Moses took the word. ''And you women sit easy at bora 
sewing and singing, and forming romantic pictures of our life i 
like its homely reality as romances generally are to reality ; an 
while we are off in the hard struggle for position and the means < 
life, you hold your hearts ready for the first man that offers 
fortune ready made." 

" The first? '' said Mara — " oh, you naughty — sometimes 
try two or three." 

" Well, then, I suppose this is from one of them," said Moe 
flapping down a letter from Boston, directed in a masculine ha 
which he had got at the post-office that morning. 

Now Mara knew this letter was nothing in particular, but 
was taken by surprise, and her skin was delicate as peach bio 
and so she could not help a sudden blush, which rose even to 
golden hair, vexed as she was to feel it coming. She put 
letter quickly in her pocket, and for a moment seemed too disc 
posed to answer. 

" You do well to keep your own counsel,'* said Moses. " 
friend so near as one's self ' is a good maxim ; one does not ex 
young girls to learn it so early, but it seems they do." 

" And why shouldn't they, as well as young men ? " said 1^' 
" Confidence begets confidence, they say." 

" I have no ambition to play confidant," said Moses, *» altho 
as one who stands to you in the relation of older brother 
guardian, and just on the verge of a long voyage, I might be 
posed anxious to know." 

aJI het'lt ^4. ^*^® ^"^ ambition to be confidante,'' said Mara, 
»pmt sparkling in Vvct eyea\ "-^ «\^\\cwl^,>«V«q.q^<^^ 


y'ou Id the relation of only sister, I might be supposed, pcrha})^, 
^'Bel some interest to be in your confidence." 
^, iTie words " older brother " and * 'only sister *• had grated on 
^ ^ ©ars of both the combatants as a decisive sentence. 

^lara never looked so pretty in her life, for the whole force of 

being was awake, glowing and watchful, to guard the passage, 

*^, and window of her soul, that no treacherous bint might 

pe. Had he not just reminded her that he was only an elder 

ther, and what would he think if he knew the truth ? And 

— thought the words only sister an unequivocal declara- 

^**U of how the matter stood in her view, and so he rose, and 


*' I won't detain you longer from your letter," took his hat, 
^*i<i went out. 

"Are you going down to Sally's?" said Mara, coming to the 
'^^Kkt and looking out after him. 

*» Yes." 

" Well, ask her to come home with you and spend the evening. 
I have ever so many things to tell her." 

" I will," said Moses, as he lounged away. 

*' The thing is clear enough," he said to himself ; " why should 

I make a fool of myself any further? What possesses us men 

always to spt our hearts precisely on what isn't to be had ? There's 

Sally Kittridge likes me — ^I can see that plainly enough, for all her 

Wincing ; and why couldn't I have had the sense to fall in love 

with her? She will make a splendid, showy woman. She has 

talent and tact enough to rise to any position let me rise high as 

I wiU. She will always have skill and energy in the conduct of 

life, and when all the froth and foam of youth has subsided, she 

will make a noble woman ! Why, then, do I cling to this fancy, 

and feel that this flossy, cloudy, delicate, quiet, little puff of 

thistle-down on which I have set my heart is the only thing for 

me, and that without her my life will always be incomplete ? I 

remember all our early life — it was she who sought me, and ran 

after me; and where has all that love gone to? Gone to tlvla 

1:72 THE rr.ARL of ours islakd 

fellow, that*8 plain enough. When a girl like her is so confoimdfidiy 
cool and easy, it^s because her heart is off somewhere else.'* 

This conversation took place about four o'clock in as fine ■ 
October afternoon as you could wish to see. The sun dopngj 
westward turned to gold the thousand blue scales of liie Bea, uA] 
soft pinc-scentcd winds were breathing everywhere through ttlj 
forests, waving the long swaying fihns of hoary moss, and 
the leaves of the white birches that fluttered through the 
gloom. The moon, already in the sky, gave promise of a ttj 
moonlight night ; and the wild and lonely stillness of the ii 
and the thoughts of leaving in a few days, all conspired to 
the restless excitement in our hero*s mind into a kind of KxaaxS^ 
craving unrest. 

Now, in some such states, a man disappointed in one ironB^ 
will turn to another, because, in a certain way and measure, to 
presence stills the craving and covers the void ; it is a sort of SBp' 
posititious courtship — a saying to one woman who is sympathetic 
and receptive the words of longing and love that another will wA 
receive. To be sure, it is a game unworthy of any true na*'. 
a piece of sheer, reckless, inconsiderate selfishness; but mendoiti 
as they do many other unworthy things, from the mere promptings 
of present impulse, and let consequences take care of themselveB. 

Moses met Sally that afternoon in just the frame to play the 
lover in his hypothetical, supposititious way, with words, andlotfe 
and tones that came from feelings given to another ; and as to 

Well, for once Greek met Greek, for although Sally, as tw 
ehowed her to you the other night, was a girl of generous impoteB, 
she was yet in no danger of immediate translation on account of 
superhuman goodness. 

In short, Sally had made up her mind that Moses should give 
enh\ "^^^^^^^ *^ ^y ^^^^ precious and golden No, which should 

tr?iti.f ^'^"^ *° ^^^^* ^^'^ ^ ^^® ^^ ^^^ captives ; and then-he 
«^^g^t go where he liked for all her. 

'> said the wicked elf, «a ^e \ooYq^ *m\.o V^-c ^^xv ^^t dark 

■- — -' 


, in the little square of mirror shaded by a misty asparagus 
^^'^i^ ; and to this end there were various braidings and adomings of 
"^^^e lustrous black hair, and coquettish ear-rings were mounted, that 
*Hmg glancing and twinkling just by the smooth outline of her 
Showing cheek ; and then Sally looked at herself in a friendly way 
approbation, and nodded at the bright dimpled shadow with a 
of secret understanding. The real Sally and the Sally of the 
i:-gla8S were on admirable terms with each other, and both of 
mind about the plan of campaign against the common enemy 
^^lly thought of him as he stood Hngly and triumphantly on the 
^^^ck of his vessel, his great black eyes flashing confident glances 
^to hers, and she felt a rebellious rustle of all her plumage. " No, 
^>'," she said to herself, " you don't do it. You shall never find 
*■*€ among your slaves'* — (*' that you know of," added a doubtful voice 
Within her) — ^^ never to your knowledge^''* she said, as she turned 
*^y. ^ 

*^ I wonder if he will come here this evening,*' she said, as she 
l^egan to work upon a pillow-case, one of a set which l^irs. Eittridge 
llad confided to her nimble fingers. The seam was long, straight, 
Vid monotonous, and Sally was restless and fidgety ; her thread 
"Would catch in knots, and when she tried to loosen it would break, 
%nd the needle had to be threaded over again. Somehow the work 
>as terribly irksome to her, and the house looked so still, and dim, 
Und lonesome, and the tick-tock of the kitchen clock was insuffer- 
able ; and Sally let her work fall in her lap, and looked out of the 
window far to the open ocean, whence a fresh breeze was blowing 
towards her, and her eyes grew deep and dreamy following the 
gliding ship sails. Sally was getting romantic. Had she been 
reading novels? Novels? What can a pretty woman find in a 
novel equal to the romance that is all the while weaving and un- 
weaving about her, and of which no human foresight can tell her the 
catastrophe ? Is it novels that give false views to life ? Is there not 
au eternal novel with all these false, cheating views written in the 
breast of every attractive girl, whose witcheries make every man 
inat comes near her talk like a fool ? Like a sovereign princess^ slis 


neva: hears tlie truUi — ^unlesB it be from the one im 
thousand who understands both himself and her. Fr 
she hears only flatteries, more or less ingenious, acct 
ability of the framer. Compare, for example, -what 
says to little Seraphina at the party to-night, with 
Brown sober says to sober sister Maria about her to-mo 
remembers that he was a fool last night, and knows wlu 
and always has thought, to-day — but pretty Seraphini 
adores her, so that no matter what she does, fie will i 
flaw. She is swe of that, poor little puss. She does 
Ihat philosophic Tom looks at her as he does at a glass of c 
or a dose of exhilarating gas, and calculates how much 
for him to take of the stimulus without interfering with tl 
plans of life — which, of course, he does not mean to give u^ 
The one thousand and flrst man in creation is he that can 
fascination, but will not flatter, and that tries to tell to th 
tyrant the rare word of truth that may save her — he is, as ^ 
the one thousand and flrst. 

Well, as Sally sat, with her great dark eyes dreamily foil* 
the ship, she mentally thought over all the compliments Moan 
paid her, expressed or understood, and those of all her 
admirers, who had built up a eort of cloud world around 1 
that her little feet never rested on the soil of reality. Sail; 
shrewd and keen, and had a native mother- wit in the discen 
of spirits that made her feel that, somehow, this was all false 
but stiU she counted it over, and it looked so pretty and brigh 
she sighed to think it was not real. " If it only had been, 
thought ; *'if there were only any truth to the creature I 
so handsome I It's a pity I But I do believe, in his secret 
he is in love with Mara. He is in love with some one, I li 
I have seen looks that must come from something real. Bu 
were not for me. I have a kind of power over him, though 
Baid, resuming her old wicked look ; " and I'll puzzle him a 
and torment him. He shall find his match in me I " And 
nodded to a cat-bird that sat x>erc\ii^ on. ^ ^\n&-^xet&» oa if sb 


a secret understanding with him, and the cat-bird went of* into a 
perfect roulade of imitations of all that was going on in the lato 
bird-operas of the season. 

Sally was roused from her reverie by a spray of golden rod that 
mg thrown into her lap from an invisible hand, and Moses soon 
^ipeared at the window. 

"There's a plume that would be becoming to your hair," ho 
Wid. " Stay, let me arrange it ! " 

" No, no I you'll tumble my hair ! What can you know of 
noh things?" 

Moses held the spray aloft, and leaned towards her, with a sort 
of quick, determined insistance. " By your leave, fair lady," he 
laid, wreathing it in her hair ; and then, drawing back a little, he 
looked at her with so much admiration, that Sally felt herself blush. 

*' Come, now ! I dare say youVe made a fright of me," she 
Aid, rising, and turning instinctively to the looking-glass. But 
Ae had too much coquetry not to see how admirably the golden 
plome suited her black hair, and the brilliant eyes and cheeks. 
She turned to Moses again, and curtseyed, saying, " Thank you, 
tirl" dropping her eyelashes with a mock humility. 

" Come, now I " said Moses ; " I am sent after you. Mara wants 
^ou to come and spend the evening. Let's walk along the sea-shore, 
Jid get there by degrees." 

And so they set out ; but the path was circuitous — for Moses 
ras always stopping, now at this point and now on that, and 
ringing up some of those thousand little bye-plays which a man 
an get up with a pretty woman. They searched for smooth 
ebbles where the waves had left them— many-coloured, pink, and 
rimson, and yellow, and brown, all smoothed and rounded by the 
bemal tossings of the old sea, that had made playthings of them 
>r centuries ; and with every pebble, given and taken, were things 
5 be said which should have meant more and more, had the play 
een earnest. Had Moses any idea of offering himself to Sally? 
ro ; but he was in one of those fluctuating, unresisting moods of 
lind in which he was willing to lie like a chip on the tide of 


present emotion, and let it rise and fiiU, and 
liked ; and gaily never had seemed more beant 
to him than that afternoon, because there was i 
and depth aboat her that he had nerer seen befoi 

" Come on, and let me show yon my hermiti 
guiding her along the slippery, projecting rocks, 
yellow tresses of sea- weed. 

Sally often slipped in this treacherous footing, 
obliged to hold her up ; and, insensibly, he threw a n 
manner, so much more than ever he had before, that, I 
had gained the little cove, both were really agitate 
He felt that temporary delirium which is often the n 
of a strong womanly presence, and she felt that agit 
woman must when a determined hand is striking 
; i vital chord of her being. 

J- When they had stepped round the last point ol 

I found themselves driven by the advancing tide up iul 

f i lonely grotto ; and there they were, with no look-out b 

blue sea, all spread out in rose and gold, under the twi 
with a silver moon looking pensively down upon them. 
" Sally," said Moses, whispering in her ear ; " you Ic 
you not ? " He tried to pass lus arm around her. 

She turned and flashed at him a look of mingled 
defiance, and struck out her hands at him; then h 
turning away and retreating to the other end of the gro 
down on a rock and begun to cry. 

Moses came towards her and kneeled, trying to take 
She raised her head angrily, and again repulsed him. 

" Gro 1 " she said ; ^^ what right had you to say th 
right had you even to think it ? " 

" Sally, you do love me ! it cannot but be — ^you are f 
you could not have been going on with me just as you 
not feel more than friendship ? " 

^^ Oh, you men I your conceit passes understandi 
SalJjr^ "/Du think we are bam lo \» 'so>tt \ys&d.-«l&YQE 



'ou are mbtaken, sir I I donH lore yon ; and, what's more, 
rCt love me ; you know you don^t ; you know you love some- 
Ise — ^you lore Mara — you know you do : there's no truth in 
she said, rising indignantly. 

ses f dt hunself colour ; there was an embarrassed pause ; and 
3 answered, *' Sally, why should I love Mara? Her heart is 
in to another — ^you yourself know it." 
don't know it either," said Sally ; " I know it is not so." 
tut you gaye me to understand so ? " 

l^ell, sir, when you put prying questions to me, about what 
ght have asked her, what was I to do ? Besides, I did like 
wr you how much better Mara could do than take you; 
, I didn't know till lately — ^I never thought she could care 
or any man, more than I could." 

.nd you think she loves me ? " said Moses, earnestly, a flash 
illuminating his face. " Do you really ? " 
liere you are I " said Sally ; " it's a shame I have let you 
Yes, Moses Fennel, she loves you like an angel — as none of 
m deserve to be loved — as you, in particular, don't." 
ses sat down on a point of the rock, and looked down dis- 
Qanced. Sally stood up, glowing and triumphant, as if 
d her foot on the neck of her oppressor, and meant to 
he most of it. 

Tow, what do you think of yourself, for all this summer's 
-for what you have just said ? Asking me if I didn't love 
Supposing, now, I had done as some other girls would— 
i, and played the fool — ^why, to-morrow you would hare 
hinking how to be rid of me. I shall save you all that 
J, sir." 
ally, I own I have been acting like a fool," said Moses, 


Ton have done worse than that ; you have acted wickedly,' 


Lnd am I the only one to blame?" said Moses, lifting hia 

itb a show of resistance. 

278 THE t>EABt Of 0RB*8 ISLAKD. 

." Listen 1 " said Sally, energetically. " I hare pla; 
and acted wrong, too, but there if* just this difference 1 
and me — you had nothing to lose, and I a great deal, 
such as it is, was safely disposed of ; but supposing y 
mine, what would you have done with it? That was i 
you considered." 

" Go on, Sally ; never spare. I am a vile dog, unv 
of you," said Moses. 

Sally looked down on the handsome penitent with ; 
ing, as he sat quite dejected, his strong arms drooping, 
eyelashes cast down. 

" I'll be friends with you," she said, " because, a 
not BO very much better than you. We have both i 
and made dear Mara very unhappy ; but, after all, I'm 
to blame as you, because, if there had been any reality 
I could have paid it honestly — ^I had a heart to give 
now, and intend long to keep it," said Sally. 

** Sally, you are a right noble girl ; I never kne 
were till now 1 " said Moses, looking at her with admir 

*' It's the first time all this six months that we hav< 
spoken a word of truth or sense to each other. I neve: 
you, I never did anything but trifle with you ; and yc 
Now we've come to some plain, dry land we may waL 
friends ; so now help me up these rocks, and let me go 

" And you'll not come home with me ? " 

" Of course not ; I think you may as well have o: 
Mara without witnesses." 


Moses walked slowly home from his interview with Si 
of maze of confused thought. In general, men unders 
only from the outside, and judge them with about a 
comprehension as an eagle might judge a canary-bird 
cultjr of real understanding intensv^ea m -^xo^^v^ix ^ 

ttOSES ts A Ma2b op thought. 27d 

distinctively manly, and the woman womanly. There are men 
with a large infusion of the feminine element in their composition, 
who read the female natm^ with more understanding than com> 
ioonly falls to the lot of men ; but in general, when a man passes 
beyond the mere outside artifices and unrealities which lie between 
tiie two sexes, and really touches his finger to any vital chord in 
file heart of a fair neighbour, he is astonished at the quality of the 

" I could not have dreamed there was so much in her," thought 
Moses, as he turned away from Sally Kittridge. He felt humbled, 
88 well as astonished, by the moral lecture which this frisky elf, 
irfth whom he had all summer been amusing himself, preached to 
1dm from the depths of a real woman's heart. What she said of 
1 harass loving him filled his eyes with remorseful tears ; and for the 
Bioment he asked himself whether this restless, jealous, exacting 
desire which he felt to appropriate her whole life and heart to him- 
self, were as really worthy of the name of love as the generous 
>elf-devotion with which she had, all her Ufe, made all his interests 
ler own. 

Was he to go to her now and tell her that he loved her, and 
therefore he had teased and vexed her — therefore he had seemed to 
[yrefer another before her — therefore he had practised and experi* 
nented upon her nature? A suspicion rather stole upon him that 
ove which expresses itself principally in making exactions and 
^ving pain, is not exactly worthy of the name. And yet he had 
)een secretly angry with her all summer for being the very reverse 
>f this ; for her apparent cheerful willingness to see him happy 
nth another ; for the absence of all signs of jealousy, all desire of 
xclusive appropriation. It showed, he said to himself, that there 
vaa no love ; and now, when it dawned on him that this might be 
he very heroism of self-devotion, he asked himself which was best 
vorthy to be called love. 

*' She did love him, then !" The thought blazed up through 
.he smouldering embers of thought in his heart like a tongue of 
lame. She loved him I He felt a fiort of tmxm^km vt>.^lQ^ \!i& ^^^^ 


Bare Sally most know, they wore so intimate. Well, he would g 
to her and tell her all, confess all his sins, and be forgiven. 

When he came back to the house, all was still evening. Tl 
moon, which was playing brightly on the distant sea, left one ad 
of the brown house in shadow. Moses saw a light gleaming be 
hind the curtain in the little room on the lower floor, which ha 
been his peculiar sanctum the summer past. He had made a soc 
of library of it, keeping his books and papers. Upon the whill 
curtain flitted, from time to time, a delicate, busy shadow ; nowii 
rose, and now it stooped, and then it rose again, grew dim, aai 
vanished, and then came out again. His heart beat quick. 

Mara was in his room, busy, as she always had been before \k 
departuresi, in cares for him. How many things had she madt 
for him, and done and arranged for him all his life long !— thinjif 
which he had taken as much as a matter of course as the shiiuDi 
of that moon. His thoughts went back to the time of his ^ 
going to sea — ^he a rough, chaotic boy, sensitive and surly, an( 
she the ever thoughtful, good angel of a little girl, whose lovioi 
kindness he had felt free to use and to abuse. He remembers tha 
he made her cry there when he should have spoken lovingly an 
gratefully to her, and that the words of acknowledgment tha 
ought to have been spoken never have been said — ^remain unsai 
to this hour. He stooped low, and came quite close to the musli 
curtain. All was bright in the room, and shadowy without ; 1 
can see her movements as through a thin white haze. She 
packing his sea-chest ; his things are lying about her folded ( 
rolled nicely. Now he sees her on her knees writing sometbii 
with a pencil in a book, and then she envelops it very carefully 
silk paper, and ties it trimly, and hides it away at the bottom 
the chest. Then she remains a moment kneeling at the chest, h 
head resting in her hands. A sort of strange sacred feeling com 
over him as he hears a low murmur, and knows that she feelf 
Presence that he never feels or acknowledges. He feels somehc 
that he is doing her a wrong thus to be prying upon momei 
when fihe thinks herself alone witYi Oo^. K ^x^. ot ^^j^gae remoi 


fied him ; he felt as if she were too good for him. He turned 
ttay, and entering the front door of the house stepped noiselessly 
•bog and lifted the Wlbch of the door. He heard a rustle, as of 
ODe rising hastily, as he opened it and stood before Mara. He had 
Aade up his mind what to say ; but when she stood there before 
ttn, with her surprised, inquiring eyes, he felt confused. 

" What, home so soon ? " she said. 

" You did not expect me, then ? " 

" Of course not — not for these two hours ; to," she said, looking 
ibout, " I found some mischief to do among your things. If you 
^ waited as long as I expected, they would all have been quite 
^ht again, and you would never have known." 

Moses sat down and drew her toward him, as if he were going 
O say something, and then stopped and began confusedly playing 
Hth her work-box. 

" Now, please don't," said she, archly. " You know what a 
ittle old maid I am about my things." 

"Mara," said Moses, " people have asked you to marry them, 
laye they not ? " 

" People asked me to marry them I " said Mara. '* I hope not. 
liVhat an odd question ! " 

" You know what I mean," said Moses ; " you have had offers 
»f marriage — ^from Mr. Adams, for example." 

"And what if I have?" 

" You did not accept him, Mara ? " said Moses. 

" Ko, I did not." 

" And yet he was a fine man, I am told, and well fitted to make 
^ou happy." 

" I believe he was," said Mara, quietly. 

" And why were you so foolish ? " 

Mara was fretted at this question. She supposed Moses had 
ome to tell her of his engagement to Sally, and that this was a 
ind of preface, and she answered — 

" I don't know why you call it foolish. I was a true friend 
o Mjt. Adams, I saw intellectually that h^ m\^lit Imj:^^ t!aft "^^«t 

282 I^K l»KA1tt OF ORK*8 ISU^t}. 

of making any reasonable woman happy. I think no^ 
woman will be fortunate who becomes his wife ; but I di( 

to marry him." 

»* Is there anybody you prefer to him, Mara? " said ^ 

She started up, with glowing cheeks and sparkling e; 

"You have no right to ask me that, though yc 

" I am not your brother, IMara," said Moses, rising, 
toward her, " and that is why I ask you. I feel I have 
ask yoa." 

" I do not understand you," she said, faintly. 

" I can speak plainer, then. I wish to put in my po 
I love you, Mara — ^not as a brother. I wish you to be 
you will." 

While Moses was saying these words, Mara felt 
whirling in her head, and it grew dark before her ey( 
had a strong, firm will, and she mastered herself, and 
after a moment, in a quiet, sorrowful tone, ** How a 
this, Moses ? If it is true, why have you done as yoi 
summer ? " 

" Because I was a fool, Mara — ^because I was jeaL 
Adams — because I somehow hoped, after all, that you ( 
me, or that I might make you think more of me throu 
of another. They say that love always is shown by jea 

" Not true love, I should think," said Mara. " Ho^ 
do so ? It was cruel to her — cruel to me." 

" I admit it — anything, everything you can say. I 
like a fool and a knave, if you will; but, after all, Mar 
you. I know I am not worthy of you— never was — ne 
you are in all things a true, noble woman, and I 

It is not to be supposed that all this was spoken witl 
pamments of looks, movements, and expressions of face 

ceT^ ^""^^ ^""^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^1^ tl^eir power to the i 
^^ ' '^^^ ^^ *' I love -you- \u^ SX;, ^^^.^\ .^x.Ovx>i 


■'gntnent, apology, promise— covering, like charity, a multitude 
of sins. 

Half an hour after, you might have seen a youth and a maiden 
coming together out of the door of the brown house, and walking 
arm in arm toward the sea-beach. 

It was one of those wonderfully clear moonlight evenings, when 
"tlie ocean, like a great reflecting mirror, seems to double the 
l>rightness of the sky — and its vast expanse lay all around them in 
its stillness, like an eternity of waveless peace. Mara remembered 
tliat time in her girlhood when she had followed Moses into the 
"Woods on just such a night — how she had sat there under the 
shadows of the trees, and looked over to Harpswell and noticed 
the white houses and the meeting-house, all so bright and clear 
in the moonlight, and then off again on the other side of the island, 
Vhere silent ships were coming and going in the mysterious still- 
liess. They were talking together now with that outflowing 
fulness which comes when the seal of some great reserve has just 
been broken — going back over their lives from day to day, bring- 
ing up incidents of childhood, and turning them gleefully like two 

And then Moses had all the story of his life to relate, and to 
tell Mara all he had learned of his mother — going over all the 
narrative contained in Mr. Sewell's letter. 

" You see, Mara, that it was intended that you should be my 
fate," he ended ; "so the winds and waves took me up, and carried 
me to the lonely island where the magic princess dwelt." 
*' You are Prince Ferdinand," said Mara. 
'* And you are Miranda," said he. 

" Ah 1 " she said, with fervour, *' how plainly we can see that 
our heavenly Father has been guiding our way ! How good he is, 
and how^ we must try to live for him — both of us ! " 

A sort of cloud passed over Moses's brow — he looked em- 
barrassed, and there was a pause between them, and then he turned 
the conversation. 

Mara felt pained. It was like a Buddeiv. ^Ya!C,at^* ^^5.^'^5c>si^M^i:^ 


and fedings were the very breath of her life. She could not speak 
in perfect confidence and unresenre, as she then spoke, withoat 
uttering them ; and her finely organised nature felt a sort of 
electric consciousness of repulsion and dissent. 

She grew abstracted, and they walked on in sQence. 

^^ I see now, IMara, I have pained yon,'* said Moses ; " butthers 
is a class of feelings that yon have that I have not, and cannoi 
have. No, I cannot feign anything. I can understand what religion 
is in you — ^I can admire its results. I can be happy if it gives yoo 
any comfort ; but people are differently constituted. I never can 
feel as you do." 

^^ Oh, don't say net7er," said Mara, with an intensity, tliaft 
nearly startled him ; ** it has been the one prayer, the one hope of 
my life, that you might have these comforts — this peace." 

^^ I need no comfort or peace except what I shall find in yoo," 
said Moses, drawing her to himself, and looking admiringly at 
her ; ** but pray for me still. I always thought my wife most be 
one of the sort of women who pray." 

'* And why ? " said Mara, in surprise. 

*' Because I need to be loved a great deal, and it is only thai 
kind who pray who know how to love really. If you had not 
prayed for me all this time, you never would have loved me in spite 
of all my faults, as you did, and do, and will, as I know you wiU,** 
he said, folding her in his arms ; and in his secret heart he said, 
^' Some of this intraisity, this devotion, which went upward to 
heaven, will be mine one day — she will worship me." 

" The fact is, Mara," he said, " I am a child of this world. I 
have no sympathy with things not seen. You are a half-spiritual 
creature — a child of air ; and but for the great woman's heart in 
you, I should feel that you were something uncanny and unnatural 
I am selfish, I know ; I frankly admit, I never disguised it ; but I 
love your religion because it makes you love me. It is an incident 
to that loving, trusting nature which makes you all and wholly 
mmc, as I want you to be. I want you all and wholly ; every 
tJiougbtf every feoihig — ^tbe whole BtTeiig,\*\i ol -joxa \i««i%. \ ^o^s* 

god's love to MARA. S85 

if I say it : I would not wish to be second in your heart, even 
3d himself I" 

Oh, Moses !^* said Mara, almost starting away from him; 
h words are dreadful ; they will surely bring evil upon us." 
1 only breathed out my nature as you did yours. Why 
d you love an unseen and distant Being more than you do 
vhom you can feel and see, who holds you in his arms, whose 
. beats like your own ? " 

Moses," said Mara, stopping, and looking at him in the clear 
ilight, " God has always been to me not so much like a ^Either 
:e a dear and tender mother. Perhaps it was because I was a 
orphan, and my father and mother died at my birth, that he 
»0en so loving to me. I never remember the time when I did 
eel his presence in my joys and my sorrows. I never had a 
yht of joy and sorrow that I could not say to him. I never 
I in the night, that I did not feel that he was loving and 
bing me, and that I loved him in return. Oh, how many, 
J things I have said to him about you ! My heart would have 
3n years ago had it not been for him ; because, though you did 
snow it, you often seemed unkind — ^you hurt me very often 
I you did not mean to. His love is so much a part of my life, 
I cannot conceive of life without it. It is the very air I 

loses stood still a moment, for Mara spoke with a fervour 
affected him ; then he drew her to his heart, and said — 
Oh, what could ever make you love me ? " 
He sent you and gave you to me," she answered, " tobe mine 
ne and eternity." 

lie words were spoken in a kind of enthusiasm so different 
the usual reserve of Llara, that they seemed like a prophecy. 
. night, for the first time in her life, had she broken the 
ve which was her very nature, and spoken of that which was 
utimate and hidden history of her soul. 



^* And 80,'^ said Mrs. Captain Badger to Miss Eozy Toothacre, 'M 
BcH'nis that Moses Penuel aVt going to have Sally Kittridge afb 
all — ^he's engaged to Mara Lincoln.*^ 

" More shame for him," said Miss Boxy, with a frown tb 
made her mohair curls look really tremendous. 

Miss Roxy and Mrs. Badger were the advance party at a qoil 
iiig, to bo holden at the house of Mr. Sewell, and had come at oi 
o'clock to do the marking upon the quilt, which was to be filled i 
by the busy fingers of all the women in the parish. Said quilt v 
to have a bordering of a pattern commonly denominated in the 
parts clam-shell, and this Miss Roxy was diligently marking wi 

'^ What makes you say so now?" said Mrs. Badger, a £ 
comfortable, motherly matron, who always patronised the L 
matrimonial venture that put forth among the young people. 

^* AVhat business had he to flirt and gallivant all sununer wi 
Sally Kittridge, and make everybody think he was going to h 
licr, and then turn round to Mara Lincoln at the last minute? 
"vvish I'd been in Mara's place." 

In Miss Eo^cy's martial enthusiasm, she gave a sudden poke 
her f rizettc, giving to it a diagonal bristle which extremely 
creased its usually severe expression; and any one « 
tcmplating her at the moment would have thought that 
iMoses Pennel or any other young man to come with tender p 
positions in that direction, it would have been a venturesc 

**Itell you what 'tis, Mis' Badger," she said; ''Pve kno 
Mara since she was bom — I may say I fetched her up myself, 
if I hadn't trotted and tended her them first four weeks of her 1 
Mis' Pennel 'd never have got her through ; and Pve watched 
every year since ; and bavin' Moaea Peui^i^l^ tk<!i only silly thii 

AUNT BQXY'B opinion OF MOSES. 287 

knew her to do ; bat you never can tell what a girl will do 
B^lien it comes to marryin' — never ! " 

'* Bat he^s a real stirring, likely young man, and captain of a 
^XLe ship,'' said Mrs. Badger. 

*^« Don't care if he's captain of twenty ships," said Miss Roxy, 
Obdurately ; ^' he a'n't a professor of religion, and I believe he's an 
9xkQdQl, and she's one of the Lord's people." 

" Wdl," said Mrs. Badger, " you know the unbelieving hus- 
shall be sanctified by the believin' wife I ^' 
u ^ " Much sanctifying he'll get," said Miss Roxy, contemptuously. 
H|*.I don't believe he loves her any more than fancy ; she's the last 
^;]pi!l^ytibing, and when he's got her he'll be tired of her, as he always 
^^ 7*GM with anything he got ever since. I tell you, Moses Fennel is 
|£|Al for pride, and ambition, and the world ; and his wife, when he 
^|fittte used to her, '11 be only a circumstance — that's all ! " 

" Come^ now. Miss Roxy," said Miss Emily, who, in her best 
*i)k and smoothly-brushed hair, had just come in ; "we must not 
«Q( you talk so. Moses Fennel has had long talks with brother, 
f^tid he thinks him in a very hopeful way, and we are all 
delighted ; and as to Mara, she is as firesh and happy as a little 

" So I tell Roxy," said Miss Ruey, who had been absent from 
tihe room to hold private consultations with Miss Emily concern- 
ing the biscuits and sponge-cake for tea, and who now sat down 
to the quilt, and began to unroll a capacious and very limp calico 
thread-case ; and, placing her spectacles awry on her little pug 
tiose, she began a series of ingenious dodges with her thread, de- 
signed to hit the eye of the needle. 

" The old folks," she continued, " are e'en a'most tickled to 
pieces, 'cause they think it'U jist be the salvation of him to get 


" I a'n't one of the sort that wants to be a-usin' up girls for 
the salvation of fellows," said Miss Roxy, severely. '* Ever since 
he nearly like to have got her eat up by sharks, by giggiting her 
off in the boat out to sea when she wa'n't more'n three yelirs old, 


I always have thoiight he was a misforlin* in that {am 
think 8o now." 

Here broke in Mrs. Eaton, a thrifty, energetic w 
deceased sea-captain, who had been left with a tidy litt 
which commanded the respect of the neighbourhood. !& 
had entered silently during the discussion, but of course 
as every other woman had that afternoon, with y\ 
expressed upon the subject. 

^^ For my part,^* she said, as she stuck a decisive neec 
first clam-shell pattern, '^ I a*n*t so sure that all the ac 
this match is on Moses Pennel^s part. Mara Lincoh 
little thing, but she aVt fitted to help a man along — si: 
be wantin' somebody to help her. Why, I 'member goi 
with Cap'n Eaton, when I saved the ship if anybody (3 
allowed on all hands. Cap'n Eaton wasn't hearty at 
he was jist gcttin' up from a fever — ^it was when Marth 
a baby, and I jist took her, and went to sea, and took c 
I used to work the longitude for him, and help him la; 
course when his head was bad ; and when we came on 
we were kept out of harbour beatin' about nearly tt 
and all the ship's tackling was stiff with ice ; and 1 1< 
men never would have stood it through, and got the si 
hadn't been for me. I kept their mittens and stocki] 
while a-dryin' at my stove in the cabin, an*d hot coi 
while a-boilin' for 'em, or I believe they'd a- frozen theii 
feet, and never been able to work the ship in. That's th( 
Now, Sally Kittridge is a great deal more like that thai 

'* There's no doubt that Sally is smart," said Mr, 
'* but, then, it a'n't every one can do like you, Mrs. Ea 

" Oh, no — oh, no," was murmured from mouth 
*' Mrs. Eaton mustn't think she's any rule for others- 
knows she can do more than most people ; " whereat t 
Mrs. Eaton said " she didn't know as it was anything : 
—it showed what anybody might do, if they'd only trt 
TeBolution ; but that Mara nevet \wA V»^^Tk. Vixou^ht i 


rt36olution, and her mother never had resolution before her — ^it 
Jva'n't in any of Mary Fennel's family ; she knew their grand- 
Xiother, and all their aunts, and they were all a weakly set, and 
aot fitted to get along in life — ^they were a kind of people that 
somehow didn't seem to know how to take hold of things." 

At this moment the consultation was hushed up by the entrance 
of Sally Kittridge and ]Mara, evidently on the closest terms of inti- 
tnacy, and more than usually demonstrative and affectionate. They 
would sit together, and use each other's needles, scissors, thread, 
and thimbi«:S interchangeably, as if anxious to express every minuto 
tlie most overflowing confidence. Sly winks and didactic nods were 
covertly exchanged among the elderly people; and when Mrs. 
Kittridge entered with more than usual airs of impressive solemnity, 
eeveral of these were covertly directed towards her, as a matron 
^hose views in life must have been considerably darkened by the 
Yecent event. 

Mrs. Kittridge, however, found an opportunity to whisper 
under her breath to Miss Euey what a relief to her it was that the 
afiEair had taken such a turn. She had felt uneasy all summer for 
&ar of what might come. Sally was so thoughtless and worldly, 
she felt afraid that he would lead her astray. She didn't see, for 
her part, how a professor of religion like Mara could make up her 
mind to such an unsettled kind of fellow, even if he did seem to 
be rich and well to do. But then she had done looking for con- 
sistency ; and she sighed and vigorously applied herself to quilting, 
like one who has done with the world. 

In return. Miss Ruey sighed and took snuff, and related for the 

hundredth time to Mrs. Kittridge the great escape she once had 

from the addresses of Abram Peters, who had turned out a "poor 

drunken creatur." But then it was only natural that Mara should 

be interested in Moses ; and the good soul went off into her favour- 

itfi verse^*^ 

" The fondness of a creature's love, 

How strong it strikes the sense ! 

Thither the warm affections move. 

Nor can we drive them thence." 

290 TUE PEAllL or ORR*8 ISLA2^D. 

In fact, Mifis Ruey^s sentimental yein was in quite a g 
state, for she more than once extracted from the dark corners 
limp calico thread-case we have spoken of certain long-tre 
morceaux of newspaper poetry, of a tend^ and sentiments 
which she had laid up with true Yankee economy, in ca 
one should ever be in a situation to need them. They 
principally to the union of kindred hearts, and the joys of r 
cated feeling, and the pains of absence. Good Miss Kue^ 
sionally passed these to Mara, with glances full of meaning, 
caused the poor old thing to resemble a sentimental goblin, I 
SaDy Kittridge in a perfect hysterical tempest of sup 
laughter, and making it difficult for Mara to preserve the de 
of life towards her well-intending old friend. The troub 
poor Miss Ruey was this : while her body had grown old and 
her soul was just as juvenile as ever — and a simple, juvenile sn 
porting itself in a crazy, battered old body, is at great dis 
tage. It was lucky for her, however, that she lived in thi 
sacred unconsciousness of the ludicrous effect of her little 
gences, and the pleasure she took in them was certainly 
most harmless kind. The world would be a far better an( 
enjoyable place than it is, if all people who are old and un 
could find amusement as innocent and Christian-like as Miss 
inoffensive thread-case collection of sentimental truisms. 

This quilting of which we speak was a solemn, festive o 
of the parish, held a week after Moses had sailed away; 
piquante a morsel as a recent engagement could not, of com 
to be served up for the company in every variety of gan 
which individual tastes might suggest. 

It became an ascertained fact, however, in the courso 
evening festivities, that the minister was serenely approba 
the event ; that Captain Kittridge was at length brought to 
of the errors of his way in supposing that SaUy had evei 
a pin for Moses more than as a mutual friend and confidan 
the great affair was settled without more ripples of discom 
ih&n muaUjr attend similar anno\inceniftiiX;&m m^^rc^ x^ftned s 




The quilting broke up at the primitive hour of nine o'clock, at 
wbich, in early New England days, all social gatherings always 
dispersed. Captain Kittridge rowed his helpmeet, with Mara and 
Bally, across the Bay to the island. 

'* Come and stay with me to-night, Sally," said Mara. 
"I think Sally had best be at home," said 'Mrs, Kittridge. 
"There's no sense in girk talking all night." 

" There a'n't sense in nothin* else, mother," said the Captain. 
f ^Next to sparkin', which is the Christianist thing I knows on, 
Comes gals' talks 'bout their sparks — they's as natural as crowsfoot 
•ud red columbines in the spring, and spring don't come but once 
* year neither ; and so let 'em take the comfort on't. I warrant, 
ftow, Polly, you've laid awake nights and talked about me." 
*' We've all been foolish once," said Mrs. Kittridge. 
** Well, mother, we want to be foolish, too," said Sally. 
" Well, you and your father are too much for me," said Mrs. 
tattridge, plaintively : " you always get your own way." 

*' How lucky that my way is always a good one ! " said Sally. 
" Well, you know, Sally, you are going to make the beer to- 
Xnorrow," stiU objected her mother. 

" Oh, yes ; that's another reason," said Sally. " Mara and I 
shall come home through the woods in the morning, and we can get 
whole apronfuls of young wintergreen ; and besides, I know where 
there's a lot of sassafras root. We'll dig it, won't we, Mara? " 

" Yes ; and I'll come down and help you brew," said Mara. 
" Don't you remember the beer I made when Moses came home? " 
" Yes, yes, I remember," said the Captain ; " you sent us a 
couple of bottles." 

*' We can make better yet now," said Mara. *' The winter- 
green is young, and the green tips on the spruce boughs are so 
full of strength. Everything is lively and sunny now." 

"Yes, yes," said the Captain, " and I 'spect I know why things 
do look pretty lively to some folks, don't they ? " 


'* I don^t know what sort of work you*ll make of the 
among you," said Mrs. Kittridge ; " but you must have it 
own way." 

Mrs. Kittridge, who never did anything else among her 
drinking acquaintances but laud and magnify Sally's good 
and domestic acquirements, felt constantly bound to keep 
faint show of controversy and authority in her dealings with! 
the fading remains of the strict government of her child 
But it was, nevertheless, very perfectly understood, in a g( 
way, that Sally was to do aJs she pleased ; and so, when the 
came to shore, she took the arm of Mara, and started up tc 
the brown house. 

The air was soft and balmy, and though the moon, by ^ 
the troth of Mara and Moses had been plighted, had waned 
the latest hours of the night, still a thousand stars were lyi 
twinkling brightness, reflected from the undulating way( 
aroimd them ; and the tide, as it rose and fell, made a sow 
gentle and soft as the respiration of a peaceful sleeper. 

" AVell, Mara," said Sally, after an interval of silence, " a 
come out right. You see that it was you whom he loved. 
a lucky thing for me that I am made so heartless, or I migl 
be as glad as I am." 

" You are not heartless, Sally," said Mara; " it's the ench 
princess asleep : the right one hasn't come to waken her." 

"May be so," said SaUy, with her old light laugh, 
were only sure he would make you happy now — half as haj 
you deserve — I'd forgive him his share of this summer's mk 
The fault was just half mine, you see, for I witched with hi: 
confess it. I have my own little spider webs for these great '. 
flies, and I like to hear them buzz." 

" Take care, Sally ; never do it again, or the spider wel 
get round you," said Mara. 

" Never fear me," said Sally. *' But, Mai-a, 1 wish I fell 
that Moses could make you happy. Do you really, now, whe 
think Berioualy^ feel as if lie ^ov\Vi*i " 


*' I never thought seriously about it," said !Mara ; ** but I know 
lie needs me — ^that I can do for him what no one else can. I have 
always felt all my life that he was to be mine — ^Uiat he was sent to 
me, ordained for me to care for and to love." 

" You are well mated," said Sally. " He wants to be loved 
Tery much, and you want to love. There's the active and passive 
Yoice, as they used to say at Miss Plucker^s. But yet, in your 
natures, you are opposite as any two could well be." 

Mara felt that there was in these chance words of Sally more 
than she perceived. No one could feel as intensely as she could 
that the mind and heart so dear to her were yet, as to all that was 
most vital and real in her inner life, unsympathising. To her, the 
spiritual world was a reality ; God an ever-present consciousness ; 
and the line of this present hfe seemed so to melt and lose itself in 
the anticipation of a future and brighter one, that it was impossible 
for her to speak intimately and not unconsciously to betray the 
fact. To him there was only the life of this world ; there was no 
present God; and from all thought of a future life he shrank with 
a shuddering aversion, as from something ghastly and unnatural. 
She had realised this difference more in the few days that followed 
her betrothal than all her life before ; for now, first the barrier of 
mutual constraint and misunderstanding having melted away, each 
spoke with an " abandon " and unreserve which made the acquain- 
tance more vitally intimate than ever it had been before. It was 
then that Mara felt that, while her sympathies could follow him 
through all his plans and interests, there was a whole world of 
thought and feeling in her heart where his could not follow her ; 
and she asked herself. Would it be so always? Must she walk at 
his side for ever repressing the utterance of that which was most 
sacred and intimate, living in a nominal and external communion 
only? How could it be that what was so lovely and clear in its real- 
ity to her, that which was to her as life-blood, that which was the 
vital air in which she lived, and moved, and had her being, could be 
absolutely nothing to him ? Was it really possible, as he said, that 
God had no existence for him except in a nominal cold belief? t\x^t 


tlio e|'i ritual world Avas to him only a land of "psAe shades and 
tloubtful glooms, from Avhich he slirunk with dread, and the least 
allusion to which was distasteful? and would this always be so? 
ami if GO, could she be happy? 

But Mara said the truth in saying that the question of personal 
happiness never entered her thoughts. She loved Moses in that 
Avay that made it necessary to her happiness to devote herself to 
liim, to Avatch over and core for him ; and though she knew not 
how, t>lic felt a sort of presentiment that it was through her that 
ho must be brought into sympathy with a spiritual and inmiortal 

All tliis passed through Mara's mind in the reverie into which 
Sally's last words threw her, as she sat on the door- sill, and looked 
off into the starry distance, and heard the weird murmur of the 

** How lonesome the sea at night always is ! " said Sally. "I 
declare, Mara, I don't wonder you miss that creature, for, to tell 
the truth, / do a little bit. It was something, you know, to have 
somebody to come in, and to joke with, and to say how he liked 
one's hair and one's ribbons, and all that. I quite got up a friend- 
ship for ;Moses, so that I can feel how dull you must be ; " and 
Sally gave a half sigh, and then whistled a tune as adroitly as a 

'' Yes," said Mara ; " we two girls down on this lonely island 
need some one to connect us with the great world ; and he was so 
full of life, and so certain and confident, he seemed to open a way 
before one out into Hfe." 

" Well, of course, while he is gone there will be plenty to do, 

getting ready to be married," said Sally. " By-the-bye, when I 

^vas over to Portland the other day, Maria Potter showed me a new 

pattern for a bed-quilt, the sweetest thing you can imagine ; it is 

called the morning star. There is a great star in the centre, and 

ittle stars all around— white on a blue ground. I mean to begin 
one for you." ** 

^^ gomg to begin spinning some^Nev-j ^xv^ ?^?c!LTv^^\.^^ij5«.:^ 

8A1XY*S WILD TALtf. ^5 

aid Mara ; " and I have shown you the new pattern 1 drew for a 
counterpane; it is morning glories, leaves and flowers, you 
snow — a pretty idea, isn^t it? " 

And so, the conversation falling from the region of the senti- 
mental to the practical, the two girls went in and spent an hoar in 
iiscussions so purely feminine that we will not enlighten the 
reader further therewith. Sally seemed to be investing all her 
energies in the preparation of the wedding outfit of her fdend, 
about which she talked with a constant and restless activity, and 
for which she formed a thousand plans, and projected shopping 
tours to Portland, Brunswick, and even to Boston — ^this last being 
about as far off a venture at that time as Paris now seems to a 
Boston belle. 

" When you are married," said Sally, " you'll have to take me 
to live with you ; that creature sha^n^t have you all to himself. »I 
hate men, they are so exorbitant — ^they spoil all our playmates 
and what will I do when you are gone? " 

** You will go with IMr. — ^what's his name ? " said Mara. 

" Pshaw, I don^t know him. I shall be an old maid," said 
Sally ; *^ and really there isn't much harm in that if one could have 
company — ^if somebody or other weuldn't marry all one's Mends — 
that's lonesome," she said, winking a tear out of her black eyes 
and laughing. "If I were only a young fellow, now, Mara, I'd 
have you myself, and that would be just the thing ; and I'd shoot 
Moses if he said a word ; and I'd have money, and I'd have 
honours, and I'd carry you off to Europe, and take you to Paris 
and Eome, and nobody knows where ; and we'd live in peace, aa 
the story-books say." 

" Come, Sally, how wild you are talking," said Mara ; " Mid the 
ckck has just struck one. Let's try to go to sleep." . 

Sally put her face to Mara's and kissed her, and Mara feb a 
moist spot on her cheek — could it be a tear ? 


^'^•A THE ITARL OF 0>^ ff'ci^ / 

I.. J ?: :r:v:;.l w.>r' 1 \r^.5 to him on/.^ t ■' 

• •■.■lb::::'. -I-kiiis, iV.i:i v.-Lich he sii-T^' ^.^ / 

a!iu>it'n to v.hieh Wiis iJUtastofiil? arJ^ 

:.!i i if . >. r-. il I .-.lij l>o haj-py? ?^ "^ 

Ij:i: Mani sai'l the truth in savi-- - ' 

Lafii-iiiLi-s iivwT L'Utoi-vHl her thor, . ^ 
way tlut iiia'le it xiL-cessary to' > 

hiiu. to watch over and cair \ • ^e 

hu\\\ she felt a st^rt of pre^. i: 1 se 

ho niii^t be brou^iht into f .: ■ " " it€ 
life. ; i 

/ * 7 - 

All this passed thr f '^ ^ j 
Sally's last words tlr^ r * 

off[ntoth««^;;i;i* ' '^^^flf^ 

.ea. ■ It;* .ader household 8^ 

'' Uow loner. / ; '^ ^ -o^^ l^ve made a viflW ^ , 

deckre, Mara.: / .' ' ^^^ » for every plate, knife, W^' 

the truth, If '$/ intimate with them, as instinct ^^ 

somebody if" ' *iad souls: each defect or spot had its 1 
one's hair t .ish or article of furniture received as tew 
ship fatV^ «edical treatment as if it were capable of und 
Sally gt;^ -^g the attention. 

blackb^ i»ow a warm, spicy day in June, one of those whi 

***y*a pine-apple fragrance from the fir-shoots, and c 

need ya *°^ hemlocks to exude a warm, resinous perfur 

full ^ listers, for a wonder, were having a day to themsel 

befr^ the numerous calls of the vicinity for twelve mih 

£0 room in which they were sitting was bestrewn with f i 

g ydresses and bonnets, which were being torn to pieces i 

' ^olesale way, with a view to a general rejuvenescence. 

y unsympathetic temperament, and disposed to take sarcas 

flf life, might perhaps wonder what possible object tl 

lettered and weather-beaten old bodies proposed to then 

♦his process— whether Miss Roxy's gaunt, black straw 

vhich aho bad worn defiantly aM ^\ii\«c^ ^^ Y^kftV3 v 

^tRlPTT 8I8TERB. 297 

*d over &ud triinmod with an old 

^getio female had coloured black b; 

-ther Mias Roiy'a rusty bombazetfo 

W any fresher for being ripped, aod 

Second or third time, and made over 

It Bituation, Probably after a week 

^ in bleaching, dyeing, preeaing, 

ned Bpectator, seeing them come 

ily think, " There are those 

>^, ■? on they have worn theee 

v 'ere contenl«dly ignorant 

.ould have enjoyed a more 

_ jjiition ; and their semi-annual 

ivaa therefore entered into with the 

I action. • 

y," said Aunt Ruey, considerately turning 

ud an old straw bonnet, on which wen 

of the former trimming in lighter lines, 

ily the effects of wind and weather — " Tm 

no this 'ere mightn't as well be dyed and 

ileach it out. I've had it tea years last 

ing its freahneas, you know. I don't believe 

," said Miss Rojty, authoritatively ; " I'm 
[■'a leg'orn, and it won't cost nothio'; so 
Tel along with it — the same smoke '11 do 
r, she finds the brimstone; and next fall 
re when we do the yarn." 
a beautiful straw I " said Miss Ruey, in a 
examining the battered old head-piece— 
on't myself, and I don't know as I conM 
3 aint quite bo limber as they was ! I don't 
ribbon on it ag'ln; 'cause green is sniih a 
ly gets caught out in a shower I There's 
e that day I lelt m^ KKftiwi aX ^ra^ji». 



Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey Toothacre lived in a little one-storey, 
gainbrel-roofed cottage, on the side of Harpswell Bay, just at the 
head of the long cove which we have already described. The 
windows on two sides commanded the beautiful bay and the 
opposite shores, and on the other they looked out into the deiue 
forest, through whose deep shadows of white birch and pine the 
silver rise and fall of the sea daily revealed itself. 

The house itself within was a miracle of neatness, for the two 
thrifty sisters were worshippers of soap and sand, and these two 
tutelary deities had kept every board of the house-floor white and 
smooth, and also every table and bench and tub of household use. 
There was a sacred care over each article, however small and 
insignificant, which composed their slender household stock. The 
loss or breakage of one of them would have made a visible crack in 
the hearts of the worthy sisters ; for every plate, knife, fork, spoon, 
cup, or glass were as intimate with them, as instinct with home 
feeling, as if they had souls : each defect or spot had its history, 
and a cracked dish or article of furniture received as tender and 
considerate medical treatment as if it were capable of understand- 
ing and feeling the attention. 

It is now a warm, spicy day in June, one of those which bring 
out the pine-apple fragrance from the fir-shoots, and cause the 
spruce and hemlocks to exude a warm, resinous perfume. Th^ 
two sisters, for a wonder, were having a day to themselves, free 
from the numerous calls of the vicinity for twelve miles round. 
The room in which they were sitting was bestrewn with fragments 
of dresses and bonnets, which were being torn to pieces in a most 
wholesale way, with a view to a general rejuvenescence. A person 
of unsympathetic temperament, and disposed to take sarcastic views 
of life, might perhaps wonder what possible object these two 
battered and weather-beaten old bodies proposed to themselves in 
this process —whether Miss Roxy's gaunt, black straw helme^ 
irJjj'ch she bad worn defiantly aW mii\.«t^ ^^sa \^v3v?j \a TQ,ceive 


;h lustre &om being pressed over and trimmed with an old 
in ribbon, which that energetic female had coloured black by 
3ine8tic recipe; and whether Miss Roxy's rusty bombazette 
Id really seem to the world any fresher for being ripped, and 
bed, and turned, for the second or third time, and made over 
1 every breadth in a different situation. Probably after a week 
fficient labour, busily expended in bleaching, dyeing, pressing, 
ing, and ripping, an unenUghtened spectator, seeing them come 
» the meeting-house, would simply think, ''There are those 

old frights with the same old things on they have worn these 
r years." Happily the weird sisters were contentedly ignorant 
ny such remarks, for no duchesses could have enjoyed a more 
it behef in their own social position; and their semi-annual 
ng and fall rehabilitation was therefore entered into with the 
t simple-hearted satisfaction. ^ 

'* Vm a-thinkin', Roxy," said Aunt Ruey, considerately turning 

turning on her hand an old straw bonnet, on which were 
aked all the marks of the former trimming in lighter lines, 
csh revealed too clearly the effects of wind and weather — " I'm 
linkin' whether or no this 'ere mightn't as well be dyed and 

8 with it as try to bleach it out. I've had it ten years last 
r, and it's kind o' losing its freshness, you know. I don't believe 
e 'ere streaks will bleach out." 

^^ever mind, Ruey," said Miss Roxy, authoritatively ; " I'm 
i' to do Mis' Badger's leg'orn, and it won't cost nothin' ; so 
I your'n in the barrel along with it — ^the same smoke '11 do 
both. Mis' Badger, she finds the brimstone ; and next flEill 
can put it in the dye when we do the yarn." 
' That 'ar straw is a beautiful straw 1 '* said Miss Ruey, in a 
itive tone, tenderly examining the battered old head-piece-— 
>raided every stroke on't myself, and I don't know as I could 
i; again. My fingers aint quite so limber as they was ! I don't 
k I shall put green ribbon on it ag'in ; 'cause green is sudh a 
arto ruin, if a body gets caught out in.aift\icyw«c\ 'YXisst^^ 

9 green etreaka come that day I leit my acb^ier^ «X ^^^H«£<». 


JkoailV, and went to meetin\ Mis* Broad she says to me/ Ami 
lliu'v, it won't rain.' And says I to her, ' AVell, Mis' Broad, W 
try it ; though I never did leave my amberil at home but wha* Ht 
rained.' And so I went, and sure enough it rained cats and dop, 
and Blroaked my bonnet all up ; and them 'ar streaks won't Undi 
out, I'm feared." 

" How long is it Mis* Badger has had that 'ar leg'om ? " 

" AVhy, you know, the captain he brought it home when h 
came from his voyage from Marseilles. That *ar was wh^ FhAB 
Ann was bom, and she's fifteen years old. It was most an dsguii 
thing when he brought it; but I think it kind o' led Mis' Badger 
on to extravagant ways — ^for gettin' new trinmiin' spring and hi 
so uses up money as fast as new bonnets; but Mis' Badger's got 
the money, and she's got a right to use it if she pleases ; but if Fd 
had new trimmin's spring and fall, I shouldn't ha' put away vhit 
I have in the bank. 

" Have you seen the straw Sally Kittridge is braidin' for Man 
Lincoln's weddin' bonnet ? " said ^liss Ruey. " It's jist the fineik 
thing ever you did see — ^and the whitest. I was a-tellin' Sally that 
I could do as well once myself, but my mantle was a-fallin' on her. 
Sally don't seem to act a bit like a disapp'inted gal. She is tf 
chipper as she can be about Mara's weddin', and seems like sbe 
couldn't do too much. But laws, everybody seems to want to be 
a-doin' for her. Miss Emily was a showin' me a fine doabld 
damask table-cloth that she was a-goin* to give her ; and Mis' 
Pcnnel she's been a-spinnin' and layin' up sheets, and towels, and 
table-cloths all her life — and then she has all Naomi's things. 
!Mis' Pennel was talkin' to me the other day about bleachin' 'en 
out, 'cause they'd got yellow a-Iyin'. I kind o' felt as if 'twai 
unlucky to be a-fittin' out a bride with her dead mother's things 
but I didn't like to say notliin'." 

*' Ruey," said Miss Roxy, impressively, "I haVt never hat 

but jist one mind about Mara Lincoln's weddin' — it's to be— bu 

it won't be the way people think. I ha'n't nussed, and watched 

and Bot up nights, iwxty years, ioT noVJoSs^ , "V ^jssq. %«^ \*s^^ 


rha,t most folks can — ^ber weddin' garments is bought and paid 
ar, and she'll wear 'em, but she won't be Moses Fennel's wife — 
jow you see." 

"Why, whose wife will she be, then?" said Miss Ruey; 
'catute that ar Mr. Adams is married. I saw it in the paper last 
reek when I was up to Mis* Badger's." 

Miss Eoxy shut her lips with oracular sternness, and went on 
nth her sewing. 

, « Who's that comin' in the back door ? " said Miss Ruey, as 
lie sound of a footstep fell upon her ear. "Bless me I" she 
udded, as she started up to look, *' if folks a'n't always nearest 
mhesD. you're talkin' about 'em. Why, Mara, you come down 
and catched us in all our dirt! Well, now, we're glad to 
you, if we be," said Miss Ruey. 


tT was in truth Mara herself who came and stood in the doorway. 
8he appeared over-wearied with her walk, for her cheeks had a 
irivid brightness unlike their usual tender pink. Her eyes had, 
koo, a brilliancy almost painful to look upon. They seemed like 
Ardent fires, in which the life was slowly burning away. 

•' Sit down, sit down, little Mara," said Aunt Ruey. '* Why, 
how like a picture you look this morning I — one needn't ask you 
bow you do — it's plain enough that you are pretty well." 

" Yes, I am, Aunt Ruey," she answered, sinking into a chair ; 
** only it is warm to-day, and the sun is so hot — ^that's all, I 
believe ; but I am very tired." 

" So you are now^ poor thing," said Miss Ruey. ** Roxy, 
Where's my turkey-feather fan? Oh, here 'tis; there, take it, 
and ifiJi you, child ; and maybe you'll have a glass of our spruce 

*' Thank you, Aunt Ruey. I brought you some young winter- 
green," said Mara, unrolling from her handkerchief a small knot o! 
those fragrant leaves, which were wilted by t\i<& "Vi'ea.^)* 


** Thank you, I'm sure,*' said Miss Ruej, in delight 
always fetch something, Mara — always wonld, ever sir 
could toddle. Roxy and I was jist talkin' about your ' 
I s'pose you're gettin' things well along down to youi 
Well, here's the beer. I don't hardly know whether you'll 
worked enough, though. I set it Saturday afternoon, 
Mis' Twitchel said it was wicked for beer to work Sunda; 
Miss Ruey, with a feeble cackle at her own joke. 

" Thank you, Aunt Ruey; it is excellent, as your thing 
are. I was very thirsty." 

" I s'pose you hear from Moses pretty often now ? " sa 
Ruey. *^ How kind o' providential it happened about his 
that property. He'll be a rich man now. And, Man 
come to grandeur, won't you? Well, I don't know anyl 
serves it more — I r'ally don't. Mis' Badger was a-fi 
a- Sunday, and Captain Kittridge, and all on 'em. I s'pose, 
we've got to lose you — you'll be goin' off to Boston, or Ne 
or somewhere." 

" We can't tell what may happen. Aunt Ruey," sai< 
and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke. 

Miss Roxy^ who, beyond the first salutations, had t 
part in this conversation, had from time to time regarde 
over the tops of her spectacles, with looks of grave apprel 
and Mara, looking up, now encountered one of these glan< 

"Have you taken the dock and dandelion tea I t 
about ? " said the wise woman, rather abruptly. 

" Yes, Aunt Roxy ; I have taken them faithfully for t? 

*' And do they seem to set you up any ? " said Miss Ro 

*' No, I don't think they do. Grandma thinks I'm bel 
grandpa ; and I let them think so. But, Miss Roxy, c 
think of something else?" 

Miss Roxy laid aside the straw bonnet which she was 
and motioned Mara into the outer room — the sink-roon 
Bisters called it. It was the Bc\3iXieri oi \} \i\KXa ^\ai^3&^ 


Jie place where all dish- washing and clothes- washing was generally 
Mrformed ; but the boards of the floor were white as snow, and 
ilie place had the odour of neatness. The open door looked out 
pleasantly into the deep forest, where the waters of the cove, 
caow at high tide, could be seen glittering through the trees. 
Soft moving spots of sunlight fell, chequering the feathery ferns 
mxid small piney tribes of evergreen, which ran in ruffling wreaths 
Df green through the dry, brown matting of fallen pine needles, 
fiirds were singing and calling to each other merrily from the 
Qpreen shadows of the forest ; everything had a sylvan fulness and 
Creshness of life. There are moods of mind when the sight of the 
Ibloom and the freshness of Mature affects us painfully, like the want 
4Bf sympathy in a dear friend. Mara had been all her days a child 
^the woods ; her delicate life had grown up in them, like one of 
*their own cool, shaded flowers : and there was not a moss, not a 
ism, not an up-springing thing that waved a leaf or threw forth a 
flower-bell, that was not a well-known friend to her. She had 
watched for years its haunts, known the time of its coining and its 
going, studied its shy and veiled habits, and interwoven with its 
Hfe each year a portion of her own ; and now she looked out into 
the old mossy woods, with their wavering spots of sun and shadow, 
with a yearning pain, as if she wanted help or sympathy to come 
£rom their silent recesses. 

She sat down on the clean, scoured door-sill, and took off her 
straw hat. Her golden brown hair was moist with the damps of 
fatigue, which made it curl and wave in darker little rings about 
her forehead ; her eyes— those longing, wistful eyes—had a deeper 
pathos of sadness than ever they had worn before ; and her delicate 
Hps trembled with some strong suppressed emotion. 

" Aunt Roxy," she said, suddenly, " I must speak to somebody. 
I can't go on and keep up without telling some one, and it had 
better be you, because you have skill and experience, and can help 
me, if anybody can. I've been going on for six months now, 
taking this and taking that, and trying to get better, but it's of no 
use. Aunt Roxy, 1/eel my life going — going just as ateadily and 


as quietly every day as the sand goes out of your hour-glaaa. I 
want to live— oh, I never wanted to live so much — and I canV 
o!i, I know I canU. Can I now — do you think I can?" 

Mara looked imploringly at Miss Rosy. The hard-visagei 
woman sat down on the wash-bench, and covering her worn, sto&y 
visage with her checked apron, sobbed aloud. 

Mara was confounded. This implacably withered, sensililB, 
dry woman, beneficently impassive in sickness and sorrow, weep- 1 
ing ! — ^it was awful as if one of the Fates had laid down her fatal 
distaff to weep. 

^lara sprung up impulsively, and threw her arms round hsf 

" Now, don't. Aunt Eoxy, don't. I didn't think you would 
feel bad, or I wouldn't have told you ; but oh, you don't know hof 
hard it is to keep such a secret all to one's self. I have to make 
believe all the time that I am feeling well and getting better. I 
really say what isn't true every day, because, poor grandmamma, 
how could I bear to see her distress ? and grandpapa — oh, I with 
people didn't love me so ! Why cannot they let me go ? And oh, 
Aunt Roxy, I had a letter only yesterday, and he is so sure ve 
shall be married this fall — and I know it cannot be." Marali 
voice gave way in sobs, and the two wept together — the old grim, 
gray woman holding the soft, golden head against her breast witli 
a convulsive grasp. " Oh, Aunt Roxy, do you love me, too?" 
said Mara : " I didn't know you did." 

'* Love ye, child?" said Miss Roxy ; "yes, I love ye like my 
life. I a'n't one that makes talk about things, but I do: you 
come into my arms fust of anybody's in this world — and, except 
poor little Ilitty, I never loved nobody as I have you." 

" Ah I that was your sister, whose grave I have seen," saii 
Mara, speaking in a soothing, caressing tone, and putting her littl 
thin hand against the grim, wasted cheek, which was now mois 
with tears. 

" Jes' so, child ; she died when she was a year younger than yc 
he ; she was not, for God took. \ieT . Y oot 'SSX.Vj \ >cket XsSa Sjj^^xvs 

AUNT soxy's counsel. 803 

> like a brook in Augnsfr- jest so. Well, she was hopefully pious 
Ld it was better for her." 
" Did she go like me, Aunt Rosy ? " said Mara. 

" Well, yes, dear ; she did begin jest so, and I gave her every- 
dug I could think of, and we had doctors for her far and near ; 
mt ^twasnH to be^ that*s all we could say — she was called, and her 
me was come." 

" Well, now, Aunt Roxy,'* said Mara ; " at any rate, it's a re- 
ef to speak out to some one. It's more than two months that I 
Efcve felt every day more and more that there was no hope — life 
Ett hung on me like a weight. I have had to make myself keep 
^ and make myself do everything ; and no one knows how it has 
ried me. I am so tired all the time, I could cry ; and yet when I 
o to bed nights I can't sleep — I lie in such a hot, restless way ; 
kid then before morning I am drenched with cold sweat, and feel 
d weak and wretched. I force myself to eat, and I force myself to 
alk and laugh, and it's all pretence; and it wears me out — ^it 
»ould be better if I stopped trying — it would be better to give up 
Old act as weak as I feel ; but how can I let them know? " 

** My dear child," said Aunt Roxy, " the truth is the kindest 
Jung we can give folks in the end. When folks know jest where 
ihey are, why they can walk ; you'll all be supported ; you must 
aniBt in the Lord. I have been more 'n forty years with sick 
fooms and dyin' beds, and I never knew it fail that those that 
anisted in the Lord was brought through." 

** Oh, Aunt Roxy, it is so hard for me to give up — ^to give up 
loping to live. There were a good many years when I thought I 
hould love to depart — not that I was really unhappy, but I longed 
o go to heaven, though I knew it was selfish, when I knew how 
onesome I should leave my friends But now, oh, life has looked 
o bright ; 1 have clung to it ^ ; I do now. I lie awake nights 
aid pray, and try to give it up and be resigned, and I can't. Is 
t wicked ? " 

" Well, it's natur' to want to live," said Miss Roxy. *' Life »s 
n^eet, and in a gen'l way we was made to Uve, Don't worr^ \ tM 


Lord *11 bring you right when his time comes. Folks isn^t alwajl 
8U2)|X)rtcd jest when they want to be, nor as they want to be; bil 
yet they're supported fust and last. Ef I was to tell you IisrI 
iKis hope in your case, I shouldn't be a-tellin* you the truth. I ImiA 
much, if any ; only all things is possible with God. If youoodl 
kind o* give it all up and rest easy in his hands, and keep &4d/^ 
what you can — why, while there's life there's hope, you know ;fll 
if you are to be made well, you will be all the sooner." 

" Aunt Boxy, it's all right ; I know it's all right. Godboii 
best ; he will do what is best ; I know that ; but my heart (M 
and is sore. And when I get his letters — I got one yesterday-HJ 
brings it all back again. Everything is going on so well ; he Ba| 
he has done more than all he ever hoped ; his letters are faU o 
jokes — full of spirit. Ah, he little knows — and how can I td 
him ? " 

** Child, you needn't yet. You can jest kind o' prepare M 
mind a little." 

" Aunt Roxy, have you spoken of my case to any one— ha\ 
you told what you know of me ? " 

" No, child, I ha'n't said nothing more than that you wap. 
little weakly now and then." 

" I have such a colour every afternoon," said Mara. " Gram 
papa talks about my roses, and Captain Eittridge jokes me ato 
growing so handsome; nobody seems to realise how I feel, 
have kept up with all the strength I had. I have tried to sha 
it off, and to feel that nothing was the matter — really there 
nothing much only this weakness. This morning I thought 
would do me good to walk down here. I remember times wh« 
could ramble whole days in the woods, but I was so tired befor 
got half way here, that I had to stop a long while and rest. Ai 
Koxy, if you would only tell grandpapa and grandmamma ji 
how things are, and what the danger is, and let them stop talld 
to me about wedding things I — for really and truly I am toounw 
to keep up any longer." 

" Well, child, I will," saidMiaa^xi. "Your grandfetl 


bd supported, and hold you up, for he's one of the sort as has 

secret of the Lord — ^I remember him of old. Why, the day 

father and mother was buried, he stood up and sung old 

,' and his face was wonderful to see. He seemed to be 

l' with the world under his feet, and heaven opening. He*s 

Christian, your grandflEither is ; and now you just go and 

down in the little bed-room, and rest you a bit, and by-and-by, 

the cool of the afternoon, I'll walk along home with you." 

Miss Boxy opened the door of a little room, whose white, fringy 

^^^^ludow-curtains were blown inward by breezes from the blue sea, 

laid the child down to rest on a clean, sweet-smelling bed, with 

^ deft and tender care as if she were not a bony, hard-visaged, 

•^"^higuliii' female, in a black mohair frizette. 

She stopped a moment wistfully before a little profile head, of 
kind which resembles a black shadow on a white ground. *^ That 
Hitty,'^ she said. 

Mara had often seen in the graveyard a mound inscribed to 
tbig young person, and heard traditionally of a young and pretty 
aster of Miss Roxy's, who had died very many years before. But 
the grave was overgrown with blackberry vines, and grey moss had 
grown into the crevices of the slab which served for a tombstone, 
and never before that day had she heard Miss Boxy speak of her. 
MiBB Boxy took down the little black object, and handed it to 
Mara. ** You can't tell much by that, but she was a most beauti- 
ibl cretur'. Well, it's all best as it is 1 " Mara saw nothing but a 
little black shadow cast on white paper, yet she was affected by the 
perception how bright, how beautiful was the image in the memorj 
of that seemingly stern, commonplace woman, and how, of all that 
in her mind's eye she saw and remembered, she could find no out* 
ward witness but this black block. " So some day my finends will 
speak of me as a distant shadow," she said, as, with a sigh, she 
turned her head on the pillow. 

Miss Boxy shut the door gently as she went out, and betrayed 
the unwonted rush of softer feelings which had come over her only 
by bein^ more dictatorial and commandiii^ Wi'd^.n \3&>;^ \sl ^qssl 


ta-eatmcnt of her sister, who was sLtting in fidgety corio^tj 
know what could have been the subject of the private ( 

** I s^pose Mora wanted to get some advice about makin* vl\ 
weddin' things," said Miss Ruey, with a sort of humble quivc 
Miss Roxy began ripping and tearing fiercely at her old 8 
bonnet, as if she really purposed its utter and immediate dei 

" No, she didn't, neither," said Miss Roxy, fiercely. " I dw 
Kuey, you are silly ; your head is always full of weddings, wed( 
weddin's — ^nothing else — ^from morning till night, and nigh 
morning. I tell you there's other things have got to be the 
of in this world besides weddin' clothes, and it would be w 
people would think more o' gettin' their weddin' garments i 
for the kingdom of heaven. That's what Mara's got to thin 
for, mark my words, Ruey, there is no marryin' and givi 
marriage for her in this world." 

" Why, bless me, Roxy, now you don't say so ! " said Mi^ I 
'^ why I knew she was kind o' weakly and ailin', but " 

" Kind o' weakly and ailin' 1 " said Miss Roxy, taking up 
Uuey's words in a tone of high disgust, " I should rather thii 
was ; and more 'n that, too : she's marked for death, and that 1 
long, too. It may be that Moses Fennel '11 never see her agj 
he never half knew what she was worth — maybe he'll know 
he's lost her, that's one comfort ! " 

" But," said Miss Ruey, " everybody has been a-sayin' w 
beautiful colour she was a-gettin' in her cheeks." 

" Colour in her cheeks 1 " snorted Miss Roxy ; " so does a 
maple get colour in September and turn all scarlet, and wha 
Why, the frost has been at it, and its time is out. That's 
your bright colours stand for. Ha'n't you noticed that little ^ 
stone cough, jest the faintest in the world? and it don't come 
a cold, and it hangs on. I tell you you can't cheat me; 
going jest as Mehitabel went, jest as Sally Ann Smith went, ; 
Louisa Pearson went. 1 could co\mV, -aow oxk. \o.^ ^:c5v%^3«. \ 


Iris that have gone that way. Nobody saw 'em going till they 
as gone." 

^^ Well, now, I don^t think the old folks have the least idea on't,'' 
lid MisB Buey. ^^ Only last Saturday Mis' Fennel was a-talkin* 
> me about the sheets and table-cloths she's got out a-bleachin' ; 
nd she said that the weddin' dress was to be made over to Mis' 
Xosely's in Portland, 'cause Moses he's so particular about havin' 
bings genteel." 

*' Well, Master Moses '11 jest have to give up his particular 
kotions," said Miss Boxy, ^^ and come down in the dust, like all the 
est onus, when the Lord sends an east wind and withers our gourds. 
Closes Fennel's one of the sort that expects to drive all before him 
frith the strong arm, and sech has to learn that things a'n't to go 
Is they please in the Lord's world. Sech always has to come to 
ipots that they can't get over, nor under, nor round to have their 
ifwn way, but jest has to give right up square." 

" Well, Roxy," said Miss Ruey, " how does the poor little thing 
take it ? Has she got reconciled ? " 

" Reconciled ! Ruey, how you do ask questions I " said Miss 
Itoxy, fiercely pulling a bandana silk handkerchief out of her 
pocket, with which she wiped her eyes in a defiant manner. 
"Reconciled I It's easy enough to talk^ Ruey, but how would you 
like it, when everything was going smooth and playing into your 
hands, and all the world smooth and shiny, to be took short 
up ? I guess you wouldn't be reconciled. That's what I guess." 

'* Dear me, Roxy, who said I should ? " said Miss Ruey. " I 
wa'n't blaming the poor child, not a grain." 

" Well, who said you was, Ruey? " answered Miss Roxy in the 
same high key. 

** You needn't take my head off," said Aunt Ruey, roused as 
tnucU as her adipose, comfortable nature could be. "You've 
been a-talkin' at me ever since you came in from the sink-room, 
18 if / was to blame ; and snappin' at me as if I hadn't a right to 
isk civil questions ; and I won't stand it," said Miss Ruey. " And 
while I'm about it, I'll say that you aWfa^a ha.^^ wixvfetoed. icaa^ 

30d ttlE i>BAnL OF OltR^S ISLAKl). 

and contradicted, and ordered me round. I won*t bear it ii( 

" Come, Ruey, don't make a fool of yourself at your timefl 
life," said Miss Rozy. *^ Things is bad enough in this world ^1k 
out two lone sisters and church members tumin' agin each otba 
You must take me as I am, Ruey ; my bark's worse than my Ixb 
as you know." 

Miss Ruey sank back pacified into her usual state of pillov 
dependence — it was so much easier to be good-natured thani 
contend. As for Miss Roxy, if you have ever carefully examiiK 
a chestnut-burr, you will remember that, hard as it is to handle, i 
plush of downiest texture can exceed the satin smoothness of t) 
fibres which line its heart. There is a class of people in Ne 
England who betray the uprising of the softer feelings of (X 
nature only by an increase of outward asperity — a sort of bashft 
ness and shyness leaves them no power of expression for the 
unwonted guests of the heart; they hurry them into inn 
chambers and slam the doors upon them, as if they were vexed 
their appearance. 

Now, if poor Miss Roxy had been like you, my dear you) 
lady — if her soul had been incased in a round, rosy, and come 
body, and looked out of tender blue eyes, shaded by golden ha 
probably the grief and love she felt would have shown itself oi 
in bursts of feeling most graceful to see, and engaging the wp 
pathy of all; but this same soul, imprisoned in a dry, anga 
body, stiff and old, and looking out only under beetling eyebrow 
over withered high cheek-bones, could only utter itself by a p 
sionate tempest — ^unlovely utterance of a lovely impulse — d< 
only to Him who sees with a Father's heart the real beauty 
spirits. It is our firm faith that bright, solemn angels in celest 
watchings were frequent guests in the homely room of the t 
sisters, and that passing by all accidents of age and pover 
withered skins, bony features, and grotesque movements, a 
shabby clothing, they saw more real beauty there than in man; 
scented boudoir where seeimng ang^«mSL^\a\aRfe^\i\^aa»\.^ 


*' Ruey," said Miss Roxy, in a more composed voice, while her 
aard, bony hands still trembled with excitement, " this 'ere's been 
>n my mind a good while. I ha'n't said nothin' to nobody, but 
Tve seen it a-comin*. I always thought that child wa'n't for a 
long life. Lives is run in different lengths, and nobody can say 
irhat's the matter with some folks, only that their thread's run 
QfQt : there's more on one spool and less on another. I thought 
when we laid Hitty in the grave that I shouldn't never set m^- 
beart on nothin' else ; but we can't jest say we will or we won't. 
£f we are to be sorely afflicted at any time, the Lord lets us set 
our hearts before we know it. This 'ere's a great affliction to me, 
Ruey, but I must jest shoulder my cross and go through with it. 
I'm goin' down to-night to tell the old folks and to make arrange- 
ments, 80 that the poor little lamb may have the care she needs. 
She's been a-keepin' up so long, 'cause she dreaded to let 'em 
know ; but this 'ere has got to be looked right in the face, and I 
hope there'll be grace given to do it." 


Meanwhile Mara had been lying in the passive calm of fatigue 
md exhaustion, her eyes fixed on the window, where, as the white 
3urtain drew inward, she could catch glimpses of the Bay. 
Gradually her eyelids fell, and she dropped into that kind of half- 
nraking doze when the outer senses are at rest, and the mind is all 
^e more calm and clear for their repose. In such hours a spiritual 
:dairvoyance often seems to lift for a while the whole stifling cloud 
\itiB,t lies, like a confusing mist, over the problem of life, and the 
lonl has sudden glimpses of things unutterable which lie beyond, 
rhen the narrow straits, that look so full of rocks and quicksands, 
widen into a broad, clear passage; and one after another, rosy 
with a celestial dawn, and ringing silver bells of gladness, the isles 
of the blessed lift themselves up on the horizon, and the soul is 
fioqded mth an atmosphere 'of light aipid ^onj. K& \jQfc \ssaAs:^ 


Christian fell off at the Gross and was lost in the sepulchre, 80, in 
these honrs of celestial yision, the whole weight of lifers angoisliis 
lifted, and passes away like a dream; and the soul, se^Ae 
boundless ocean of Divine love — wherein all human hopes, vA 
joys, and sorrows lie so tenderly upholden— comes and casts Ibft 
one little drop of its personal will and personal existence irith 
gladness into that Fatherly depth. Henceforth, with it, God iid 
Saviour is no more word of mine and thine, for in that hoar tte ; 
child of earth feels himself heir of all things : " All things an 
yours, and ye are Christy and Christ is God's.** 

" The child is asleep,** said Miss Koxy, as she stole on tiptoe 
into the room when their noon-meal was prepared. A plate and 
knife had been laid for her, and they had placed for her a tumbler 
of quaint old engraved glass, reputed to have been brought orer 
from foreign parts, and which had been given to Miss Boxy as her 
share in the effects of the mysterious Mr. Swadkins. Tea, also, 
was served in some egg-like India china cups, which saw the ligbt 
only on the most high and festive occasions. 

"Hadn't you better wake her?'* said MissRuey; "a cup of 
hot tea would do her so much good.'* 

Miss Ruey could conceive of few sorrows or ailments which 
would not be materially better for a cup of hot tea. K not the 
very elixir of life, it was indeed the next thing to it. 

" Well,'* said Miss Roxy, after laying her hand for a momen 
with great gentleness on that of the sleeping girl, " she don't wake 
easy, and she's tired ; and she seems to be enjoying it so. The 
Bible says, * He giveth his beloved sleep,' and I won't interfere 
I've seen more good come of sleep than most things in my nursin 
experience,** said Miss Roxy ; and she shut the door gently, ard 
the two sisters sat down to their noontide meal. 

" How long the child does sleep 1 ** said Miss Ruey, as the old 
clock struck four. 

" It was too much for her this walk down here,*' said Aun 
lioxjr, < « (She's been doing too mxxcYL ioT ^ Vm^ Myksr. ^\si. -sw-^in* 


o put an end to that. Well, nobody needn^t say l^Iara La'n^t got 
'esolution ; I never see a little thing have more. She alwcays did 
lave when she was the leastest little thing. She was always quiet, 
ind white, and still, but she did whatever she sot out to.*^ 

At this moment, to their surprise, the door opened, and 
Mara came in, and both sisters were struck with a change that had 
passed over her. It was more than the result of mere physical 
repose. Not only had every sign of weariness and bodily languor 
vanished, but there was about her an air of solemn serenity and 
high repose that made her seem, as IVIiss Euey afterwards said, 
" like an angel jest walked out of the big Bible." 

" Why, dear child, how you have slept, and how bright and 
rested you look," said Miss Kuey. 

*'I am rested," said Mara; "oh, how much I And happy," 
she added, laying her little hand on Miss Koxy^s shoulder. " I 
thank you, dear friend, for all your kindness to me. I am sorry I 
made you feel so sadly ; but now you mustn't feel so any more, for 
all is well — ^>'es, all is well. 1 see now that it is so. I^ave passed 
beyond sorrow — yes, for ever." 

Soft-hearted Miss Kuey here broke into audible sobbing, hiding 
her face in her hands, and looking like a tumbled heap of old faded 
calico in a state of convulsion. 

"Dear Aunt Ruey, you mustn't," said Mara, with a voice of 
gentle authority. '' AVe mustn't any of us feel so any more. 
There is no harm done — no real evil is coming — only a good which 
we do not understand. I am perfectly satisfied — perfectly at rest 
ttow. I was foolish and weak to feel as I did this morning, but I 
shall not feel so any more. I shall comfort you all. Is it anything 
JO dreadful for me to go to heaven? How little while it will bo 
before you all come to me 1 Oh, how little^ little wliile 1 " 

" I told you, Mara, that you'd be supported in the Lord's time," 
said Miss Roxy, who watched her with an air of grave and solemn 
ittention. " First and last, folks allers is supported ; but some- 
times there is a long wrestling. The Lord's give you the victory 

812 ini! PKARL op^orr'b island. 

" Victory 1" aaid the girl, speaking aa in a deep muse, andfiik 
a mysterioufl brightnesB in her eyes ; " yes, that is the vciW* 
victory— no other word expresses it. Come, Aunt Roxy,«^ 
go home. I am not afraid now to tell grandpapa and gni^ 
mamma. God will care for them ; he will wipe away all tea*." 

"Well, though, you mustn't think of going till yoiVwW* 
cup of tea," said Aunt Ruey, wiping her eyes. " Tve kqp' thfi*^ 
pot hot by the fire, and you must eat a little somethin', for it'iliil 
past dinner-time." 

'' Is it ? " said Mara. *' I had no idea I had slept bo kag; 
how thoughtful and kind you are I " 

" I do wish I could only do more for you," said Miss Bwy. 
" I don't seem to get reconciled no ways ; it seems dreffle btfi 
— drefiSe ; but Tm glad you can feel so ; " and the good old anl 
proceeded to press upon the child not only the tea, which As 
drank with feverish retish, but every hoarded dainty which tbek 
limited housekeeping commanded. 

It was toward sunset before Miss Rozy and Mara started oi 
their walk homeward. Their way lay over the high stony ridg 
which forms the central part of the island. On one side, throng 
the pines, they looked out into the boundless blue of the oceai 
and on the other caught glimpses of Harpswell Bay as it Ifl 
glorified in the evening light. The fresh cool breeze blowii 
landward brought with it an invigorating influence, which Ma: 
felt through all her feverish frame. She walked with an energy 
which she had long been a stranger. She said little, but there yf 
a sweetness, a repose, in her manner contrasting singularly wi 
the passionate melancholy which she had that morning expressed 

'Misa Roxy did not interrupt her meditations. The nature 
her profession had rendered her familiar with all the changi 
mental and physical phenomena that attend the development 
disease, and the gradual loosening of the silver cords of a pre« 
life. Certain well-understood phrases, everywhere current amo 
the mass of the people in New England, strikingly tell of the d< 
^ouDdationa of religious earnealici^sa ou ^\i\Ocl \\& ^^^ ^i<5.\a bu 

Bliss ROXT's task. oi^ 

riumphant death" was a matter often casually spoken of 

g the records of the neighbourhood ; and Miss Boxy felt that 

was a vague and solemn charm about its approach. Yet the 

of the grey, dry woman was hot within her, for the conyersa- 

of the morning had probed depths in her own nature of whose 

ience she had never before been so conscious. The roughest 

most matter-of-fact minds have a craving for the ideal some- 

^; and often this craving, forbidden by xmcomelinesB and 

^ial surroundings £rom having any personal history of its own, 

aches itself to the fortune of some other one in a kind of strange 

^Dterestedness. Some one, youug and beautiful, is to live the Hfe 

^lied to them — ^to be the poem and the romance ; it is the young 

^ess of the poor black slave— the pretty sister of the homely 

^ spinster — or the clever son of the consciously ill-educated 

bther. Something of this unconscious personal investment had 

there been on the part of Miss Boxy in the nursling whose singular 

loreliness she had watched for so many years, and on whose fair 

liigin orli she had mai'ked the growing shadow of a fatal eclipse ; 

and as she saw her glowing and serene, with that peculiar bright- 

]ie» that she felt came from no earthly presence or influence, she 

oookl scarcely keep the tears £rom her honest grey eyes. 

When they arrived at the door of the house, Zephaniah Fennel 
was sitting in it, looking towards the sunset. 

" Why, reely," he said, " Miss Boxy, we thought you must 'a 
mn away with Mara ; she's been gone a'most all day." 

^ I expect she's had enough to talk with Aunt Boxy about," 
said Mrs. Fennel. " Girls going to get married have a d^ to talk 
about, what with patterns, and contrivin' and makin' up. But 
come in, Miss Boxy ; we're glad to see you." 

Mara turned to Miss Boxy, and gave her a look of peculiar 
meaning. " Aunt Boxy," she said, " you must tell them what we 
have been talking about to-day ; " and then she went up to her 
room, and shut the door. 

Miss Boxy accomplished her task with a matter-of-fact dis- 
tinctness to which her business-like habits of dealing with sickness 


And death had accustomed her, yet with a sympathetic trenu 
her voice which softened the hard directness of her words. " 
can take her over to Portland if you say so, and get Dr. Wil 
opinion/^ she said, in conclusion. " It^s best to have all done 
can be, though in my mind the case is decided.^* 

The silence that fell between the three was broken at b 
the sound of a light footstep descending the stairs, and 
entered among them. 

She came forward and threw her arms round Mrs. Fe 
neck, and kissed her ; and then turning, she nestled down i 
arms of her old grandfather, as she had often done in the olc 
of childhood, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. Th^re ^ 
sound for a few moments but one of suppressed weeping ; b 
did not weep — she lay with bright, calm eyes, as if looking 
some celestial vision. 

" It is not so very sad,^* she said, at last, in a gentle voice, 
I should go there. You are going, too, and grandmamma ; ^ 
aU going ; and we shall be for ever with the I^ord. Think 
think of it I " 

Many were the words spoken in that strange communing 
before Miss Roxy went away, a calmness of solemn rest had i 
down on all. The old family Bible was brought forth 
Zephaniah Pennel read from it those strange words of stron 
Bolation, which take the sting from death and the victory frc 
grave : — 

" And I heard a great voice out of heaven, ' Behold the 
nacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, an 
shall be his people ; and Grod himself shall be with them a 
their God. And Grod shall wipe away all tears from their 
and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor cryii 
the former things are passed away.' " 



Miss Boxy was leayiDg the dwelling of the Fennels, she met 
ChiUy Kittridge coming towards the house, laughing and singing, as 
"VM her wont. She raised her long, lean fore-finger at her with a 
leitare of warning. 

*' What's the matter now, Aunt Roxy ? " she said. ** You look 
iolemn as a hearse." 

"None o* your joking now. Miss Sally. There is such a thing 
II lerioiiB things in this 'ere world of ours, for all you girls never 
leems to know it." 

" What is the matter, Aunt Roxy ? Has anything happened ? 
Ib anything the matter with Mara ? " 

*^ Matter enough ! I've known a long time," said Miss Roxy. 
** She's been going down for three months, now ; and she's got 
■ tiiat on her that'll take her away before the year's out." 

" Pshaw 1 Aunt Roxy. How lugubriously you old nurses 
ilways talk. I hope, now, you haven't been iilling Mara's head 
with any such notions. People can be frightened into anything." 

" Sally Kittridge, dont be a-talkin' of what you don't know 
nothin' about. It stands to reason that a body that was a-bearin' 
the heat and burden of the day long before you was bom or 
thought on in this world should know a thing or two more'n you. 
Why, I've laid you on your stomach many a time, and trotted you 
to trot up the wind, and I was pretty experienced then ; and so it 
a'n't likely I'm a-goin' to take sarce from you. Mara Pennel's a 
gal as has every bit and grain as much ambition and resolution as 
you has, for all you flap your wings and crow so much louder, 
and she's one of the dose-mouthed sort, that don't make no talk ; 
and she's been a-bearin' up and bearin* up, and comin' to me on 
the sly for strengthenin' things. She's took camomile and orange 
peel, and snake-root and bone-set, and dock-root and dandelion ; 
and there han*t nothin' done her no good. She told me to-day 
9he couldn't keep up no longer, and I'yq beeiv a^-tdUiv' Mi^' 'S^'ci&s^ 


nnd her grandHher. I tell you it has been a solomn time; and if 
you're goin' in, don't go in with none o' your light, triflin'nyBi 
' * as vinegar upon nitre is he that singeth songs on a beny 

"Oil, IMiss Roxy, do tell me truly," said Sally, much movei 
"what do you think is the matter with Mara? IVe mM 
myself that she got tired easy, and that she was short-breaM; 
hut she seemed so cheerful. Can anything really be the matter?* 

" It's consumption, Sally Kittridge," said Miss Roxy; '* neitiMr 
more nor less ; that are's the long and the short. They're gong 
to take her over to Portland, to see Dr. Wilson ; it wont do bo 
harm, and it won't do no good." 

" You seem to be determined she shall die," said Sally, in a 
tone of pique. 

"Determined, am I ? Is it I that determines that the maple 
leaves will fall next October? yet I know they will. Folks cani 
help knowin' what they know ; and shuttin' one's eyes won't ate 
one's road. I s'pose now, you think, 'cause you're yoang and 
middlin' good-lookin', that you has feelins, and I hasn*t. Wdl 
you're mistaken, that's all. I don't believe there's one peison in 
the world that wouM go further and do more to save Mara Pennd 
than I would ; and yet I've been in the world long enough to see 
that livin' a'n't no great shakes. Ef one is hopefully prepared in 
the days of their youth, why, they escape a good deal if they gefc 
took cross lots into heaven." 

Sally turned away thoughtfully into the house. There waa 
no one in the kitchen; and the tick of the old clock sounded 
lonely and sepulchral. She went up-stairs to Mara's room. The 
door was ajar. She was sitting at the open window that looked 
forth towards the ocean, busily engaged in writing. The glow of 
eveniog shone on the golden waves of her hair, and tinged the 
pearly outline of her cheek. Sally noticed the translucent dear- 
ness of her complexion, and the deep burning colour and the 
transparence of the little hands, which seemed as if they might 
transmit the light like Sevrvss poTceAaioi. ^ti^ ^^ros^ Nrei^kw^ -with 


mn expreBsion of tODder calm, and sometimes stopping to consult 
open letter that SaUy knew came from Moses. So fsdr, and 
it, and serene she looked, that a painter might have chosen 
for an embodiment of twilight, and one might not be sur- 
to see a clear star shining out over her forehead ; yet in the 
tfloder serenity of the face there dwelt a pathos of expression that 
qpdke of struggles and sufferings past, like the traces of tears on 
i^ cheeks of a restful infant who has grieved itself to sleep. 

Sally came softly in on tiptoe, threw her arms round her, and 
kisBed her, with a half-laugh, and then bursting into tears, sobbed 
on her shoulder. 

*^ Dear Sally, what is the matter ? " 

^* Oh, Mara, I just met Miss Eoxy, and she told me " 

Sally only sobbed passionately. 

**It is very sad to make all one's friends so unhappy,'' said 
Mara in a soothing voice, and stroking Sally's hair. *^ You don't 
haow how much I have suffered dreading it. Sally, it is a long 
time since I began to suspect, and dread, and fear. My time of 
mgoish was then — then when I furst felt it could be possible that 
I should not live after all. There was a long time I dared not 
even think of it. I could not even tell such a fear to myself, and 
I did far more than I felt able to do to convince myself that I was 
not weak and failing. I have been often to Miss Roxy. Once, 
when nobody knew it, I went to a doctor in Brunswick ; but then 
I was afraid to tell him half, lest he should say something about 
me, and it should get out ; and so I went on getting worse and 
worse, and feeling every day as if I could not keep up, and yet 
afraid to lie down for fear grandmamma would suspect me. But 
this morning it was pleasant and bright, and something seemed to 
oome over me that said I must tell somebody ; and so, as it was 
cool and pleasant, I walked up to Aunt Roxy and told her. I 
thought, you know, she knew the most, and would feel it the 
least ; but, oh, Sally, she has a real feeling heart, and loves me so. 
It is strange she should." 

^^./.9it?" said Sally, tightening her clasp around Mara'sneck^ 


aod with aii hysterical shadow of gaiety; ^' I sappoee you 
are such a hobgoblin that nobody could be expected to 
After all, though, I diould as soon have expected roses t( 
on a juniper clump as love from Aunt Roxy.** 

"Well, she does love me," said Mara; "no mother 
kinder. Poor thing ! she really sobbed and cried when 1 
I was very tired, and she told me she would take care of 
tell grandpapa and grandmamma what had been lying od 
as such a dreadful thing to do ; and she laid me down to i 
bed, and spoke so lovingly to me. I wish you could have 
and while I lay there, I fell into a strange, sweet sort of res 
describe it, but since then everything has been changed, 
could tell any one how I saw things then.'' 

" Do try to tell me, Mara," said Sally, "for I neec 
too, if there is any to be had." 

" Well, there I lay on the bed, and the wind drew in 
sea and just lifted the window curtain, and I could sc 
shining and hear the waves making a pleasant little dash, 
my head seemed to swim and I had a sort of dream. 1 1 
was walking out by the pleasant shore, and everything f 
strangely beautiful, and grandpapa and grandmamma w 
and Moses had come home, and you were there, and we ^ 
happy ; and then I felt a sort of strange sense that some 
coming — some great trial or affliction — and I groaned a 
to Moses, and asked him to put his arm round me and 
Then it seemed to be not by our sea-shore that this was h 
but by the sea of Galilee, just as it tells about it in the I 
there were fishermen mending their nets, and men sitting 
their money; and I saw Jesus come walking along, a 
him say to this one and that one, ^ Leave all, and follow i 
seemed that the moment he spoke they did it. Anc 
came to me, and I felt his eyes in my very soul, and he sa 
thou leave aU and follow me ?* I cannot tell you what a j 
— what an anguish. I wanted to leave all, but my heart f 
were tied and woven with a t\io\iBaiti^ \\it^^^\ wA Vk^ 

MAKA8 DKIlaM. Sid 

30 seemed to fade away, and X found myself there alone and im- 

lappy, wishing that I could and mourning that I had not ; and 

shen something shone out warm like the sun, and I looked up and 

be stood there, looking pitifully, and he said again, just as he did 

before, ^ Wilt thou leave all and follow me? ' Every word was so 

gentle, so full of pity ; and I looked into his eyes, and could not 

look away ; they drew me, they warmed me, and I felt a strange, 

iranderful sense of his greatness and sweetness ; it seemed as if I 

idi within me chord after chord breaking ; I felt so free, so happy, 

and I said, ^ I will, I will, with all my heart.' And I awoke then 

ao happy, so sure of God's love. I saw so clearly how his love is in 

everything, and the words came into my mind as if an angel had 

spoken them, ^God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.' 

Since then I cannot be unhappy, and though I see how unbappy 

I was myself only this morning, yet now I wonder that anybody 

can have a grief, when Grod is so loving and good, and cares so 

Bweetly for us all. Why, Sally, if I could see Christ and hear 

him speak, I could not be more certain that he will make this 

sorrow suck a blessing to us all, that we shall never be able to 

thank him enough for it." 

" Ah, Mara," said Sally, sighing deeply, while her cheek was 
wet with tears, ^^ it is beautiful to hear you talk ; but there is one 
that I am sure will not and cannot feel so." 

" Grod will care for him," said Mara. '^ Oh, I am sure of it ; he 
is love itself, and he values love in us ; and he never, never would 
have brought such a trial, if it had not been the true and only way 
to our best good. We shall not shed one needless tear. If God 
loved us so that he spared not his own Son, he will surely give ua 
all J the good here that we possibly can have without risking our 
eternal happiness." 

" You are writing to Moses, now ? " said Sally. 

" Yes, I am answering his letter. It is so full of spirit, and 
life, and hope ; but all hope in this world — aU, all, entirely as much 
as if there were no God, and no world to come. Sally, perhaps 
our Father saw that I could not have strength to live with him 

n .1 \ 


" 1-= 



auil keep my faith. I Bhould be drawn by him earthward, instead 
of dra^'ing liim heavenward ; and so this is in mercy to us botfa. 
And arc you telling him the whole truth, Mara? ^' 
Xot all ; no," said Mara ; " he could not bear it at once. 1 
only tell him that my health is failing, and that my Mendflsn 
seriously alarmed, and that I speak as if it were doubtful inn; 
mind what the result might be." 

'• I don't think you can make him feel as you do. Moki 
Penuel has a tremendous will, and he never has yielded to my 
one. You bend, Mara, like the little blue harebells, and so tlw 
storm goes over you ; but he will stand up against it, and it will 
wrench and shatter him. I am afraid, instead of making lum 
better, it will only make him bitter and rebellious." 

" He has a Father in heaven who knows how to care for him," 
said [Mara. " I am persuaded, I feel certain that he will be 
blessed in the end — not, perhaps, in the time and way I should 
have chosen, but in the end. I have always felt that he was nunc 
ever since ho came, a little shipwrecked boy, to me, a little gM; 
and now I have given him up to his Saviour and my Saviour, to 
his God and my God, and I am perfectly at peace. All will be 

]Mara spoke with a look of such solemn, bright assurance, as 
made her, in the dusky, golden twilight, seem Hke some serene angd 
sent down to comfort, rather than a hapless mortal just wrenched 
from life and hope. 

Sally rose up and kissed her silently. "Mara," she said, "I 
shall come to-morrow to see what I can do for you. I will not 
interrupt you now. Good-bye, dear." 


There are no doubt many who have followed this history bo 
long as it danced like a gay little boat over sunny waters, and 
^vho would have followed it to t\v^ en^^Va^V^ ^««A.-«y\3d, xva^g 


oi marriage bells, who tnm from it indignantly when they see that 
its course runs through the dark valley. " This," they say, " is an 
imposition — a trick ^upon our feelings : we want to read only 
ctories that end in joy and prosperity." 

But have we, then, settled it in our own mind that there is no 
such thing as a fortunate issue in a history which does not ter- 
ndnate in the way of earthly success and good fortune ? Are we 
Christians or heathen ? 

It is now eighteen centuries since, as we hold, the " highly • 
&Youred among women" was pronounced to be one whose earthJy 
hopes were all cut off in the blossom — ^whose noblest and dearest, 
in the morning of his days, went down into the shadow of 

Was Mary the highly-favoured among women? — and was 
Jesus indeed the blessed — or was the angel mistaken ? If they 
were, then — if we are Christians — it ought to be a settled and 
established habit of our souls to regard something else as prosperity 
than worldly success and happy marriages. That life is a success 
which — ^like the life of Jesus — in its beginning, middle, and close, 
has borne a perfect witness to the truth, and to the highest form of 

It is true that God has given to us, and inwoven in our nature, 
a desire for a perfection and completeness made manifest to our 
Benses in this mortal life ; to see the daughter bloom into youth and 
womanhood — the son into manhood ; to see them marry, and be- 
come themselves parents — and gradually ripen and develop in the 
maturities of middle life, and as gradually wane mto a sunny 
autumn, and to be gathered in fulness of time to their fathers. 
Such, one says, is the programme which God has made us to 
desire ; such the ideal of happiness which He has interwoven with 
our nerves, and for which our heart and our flesh cry out ; to 
which every stroke of a knell is a violence, and every thought of 
early death is an abhorrence. 

But the life of Christ and his mother sets the foot on thtf^ 
lower ideal of happiness, and teaches ua ihsA. ^)DL^gt^ Ns» ^6Rfs^si^^^^2i% 


higher. His ministry begun with declaring — *' Blessed ajfe Iky 
that mourn." It has been well said, that " prosperity was the 
blessing of the Old Testament, and adversity of the New." Christ 
came to sliow us a nobler style of living and having ; and so far 
as he had a personal and earthly life, he buried it as a corner stooe 
on wliich to erect a new immortal style of architecture. 

Of his own he had nothing; neither houses, nor lands, Bor 
family ties, nor human hopes, nor earthly sphere of succefis— and 
as a human life, it was all a sacrifice and a defeat. He was 
rejected by his countrymen, whom the passionate anguish of liiB 
love, and the imwearied devotion of his life, could not save from 
an cTful doom; he was betrayed by weak friends; prevailed 
against by slanderers ; overwhelmed with an ignominious death in 
the morning of youth, and his mother stood by his cross ; and she 
was the only woman whom Gk)d ever called highly fSeivonred in 
this world. 

This, then, is the great and perfect ideal of what God honoois. 
Christ speaks of himself as bread to be eaten : bread — simple, 
humble, unpretending, vitally necessary to human life — ^made hy 
the bruising and grinding of the grain, unostentatiously having no 
life or worth of its own, except as it is absorbed into the life of 
others, and lives in them. We wished in this history to speak of 
a class of lives formed on the model of Christ, and, like his, ohscnre 
and unpretending ; like his, seeming to end in darkness and defeat, 
but which yet have this preciousness and value — ^that the dear 
saints who live them come nearest in their mission to the miaeion 
of Jesus. They are made, not for a career and history of thdr 
own, but to be bread of life to others. 

In every household are, or have been, some of these ; and if iffi 
look on their lives and deaths with the unbaptised eyes of nature, 
we shall see only most mournful and unaccountable failure ; where, 
if we could look with the eye of faith, we should see that thdr 
linug and dying has been bread of Hfe to those they left behind. 
Fsirest of these, and least developed, are the holy innocents 
Wno come into our householda to BCMk\ft m>2tv \5Ba ^sssSSa ^\ ^aj^j 


who sleep in our bosoms, and win us with the softness of tender 
little hands, and pass away like the lamb that was slain, before 
they have even learned the speech of mortals/ Not vain are even 
these silent lives of Christ's lambs — ^whom many an earth-bound 
heart has been roused to follow, when the Shepherd bore them to 
the higher pasture. And so the daughter who died so early — ^whose 
wedding bells were never rung except in heaven ; the son who had 
no career of ambition or manly duty, except among the angels ; 
the patient suflferers, whose only lot on earth seemed to be to 
endure — whose life bled away, drop by drop, in the shadows of 
the sick-room; all these are among those whose life' was like 
Christ's, in that they were made not for themselves, but to become 
bread to us. 

" It is expedient for us that they go away." Like their Lord, 
they came to suffer and to die. They take part in His sacrifice ; 
their life is incomplete without their death, and not till they are 
gone away does the Comforter fuUy come to us. 

It is a beautiful legend which one sees often represented in the 
churches of Europe, that when the grave of the mother of Jesus 
was opened, it was found full of blossoming lilies — ^fit emblem of 
the thousand flowers of holy thought and purpose which spring up 
in our hearts from the memory of our sainted dead. 

Cannot many who read these lines bethink them of sick rooms 
that have been the most cheerful places in the family ? — ^where the 
heart of the smitten one seemed the band that bound all the rest 
together ? and have there not been dying hours which shed such a 
joy and radiance on all around, that it was long before the 
mourners remembered to mourn ? 

It was about a month after the last conversation which we 
have recorded, and during that time the process which was to loose 
from this present life had been going on in Mara with a soft, in- 
sensible, but steady power. 

When she ceased to make efforts beyond her strength, and 
allowed herself that languor and Tepoae ^\£lOcl ^a^^^^ ^s^ss^nssss^ 
claimed, all around her became soon a^vE^ WwV^^ ^^^^i^g^^'^s^ 


going ; and yet a cheerful repose seemed to hallow the atmosphere 
around her. 

The sight of her eyery day in the family worship sitting by in 
such tender tranquillity, with such a smile on her &ce, seemed like 
a present inspiration ; and though the aged pair knew that she 
was no more for this world, yet she was comforting and inspiring 
to their view as the angel who of old rolled back the stone &omibe 
sepulchre, and sat upon it. They saw in her eyes not death, bat 
the solemn yictory which Christ gives over death. 

Bunyan has no more lovely poem than the image he gives d 
that land of pleasant waiting which borders the river of deatli, 
where the chosen of the Lord repose, while shining messengeiB, 
constantly passing and repassing, bear messages from the celestial 
shore, opening a way between earth and heaven. It was so Uiat 
through the very thought of Mara an influence of tenderness and 
tranquillity passed through the whole neighbourhood, keeping hearts 
fresh with sympathy, and causing thought and conversation to 
rest on those bright mysteries of eternal joy which were reflected 
in her face. 

Sally Kittridge was almost a constant inmate of the brown 
house, ever ready in watching and waiting *, and one only needed 
to mark the expression of her face, to feel that a holy charm was 
silently working upon her higher and spiritual nature. Those 
great dark, sparkling eyes, that once seemed to express only the 
brightness of animal vivacity, and sparkled like a brook in un- 
sympathetic gaiety, had in them now mysterious depths and tender 
fleeting shadows ; and the very tone of her voice had a subdued 
tremor. The capricious elf, the tricksy sprite, was melting away 
in the immortal soul, and the deep, pathetic power of a noble heart 
was being born. Some influence sprung of sorrow is necessary 
always to perfect beauty in womanly nature. We feeldts absence 
in many whose sparkling wit and high spirits give grace and 
vivacity to life, but in whom we vainly seek for some spot of quiet 
tendernesB and sympathetic repose. SsIIy was., ignorantly to her- 
e-olf, cbaDging in the expres^on oi \i«ic i«.«i^^««A *Qckfe\iciaa ^IVisgi 


character, as she ministered in the daily wants which sickness 
hrings in a simple household. 

For the rest of the neighbourhood, the shelves and larder of 
Mrs. Fennel were constantly crowded with the tributes which one 
or another sent in for the invalid. There was jelly of Iceland 
moss, sent across from Miss Emily, and brought by Mr. SeweU, 
whose calls were almost daily ; there were custards and preserves, 
and every form of cake and other confection in which the house- 
keeping talent of neighbours delighted, and which were sent in 
under the old superstition that sick people must be kept eating at 
aU hazards. At church, Sunday after Sunday, the simple note 
requested the prayers of the church and congregation for Mara 
Lincoln — who was, as the note phrased it, drawing near her end — 
that she, and all concerned, might be prepared for the great and 
last change. 

One familiar with New England customs must have remem- 
bered with what a plaintive power the reading of such a note from 
Sunday to Sunday has drawn the thoughts and sympathies of a 
congregation to some chamber of sickness ; and in a village church, 
where every individual is known from childhood to every other, 
the power of this simple custom is still greater. 

Then the prayers of the minister would dwell on the case, and 
thanks would be rendered to God for the great light and peace 
with which he had deigned to visit his young handmaid, and then 
would follow a prayer that when these sad tidings should reach a 
distant friend, who had gone down to do business on the great 
waters, they might be sanctified to his spiritual and everlasting 

Then on Sunday noon, as the people ate their dinners together 
in a room adjoiniog the church, all that she said and did was 
talked over and over : how quickly she had gained the victory of 
submission — ^the peace of a will united with God's — mixed with 
harmless gossip of the sick chamber, as to what she ate and how 
she slept, and who had sent her gruel withT raisins in it^ and "wha 
jell^jr with wine J and how she had "pmsfid >3fcca wA <s^\i.'^^*ww^'^ 


with a relish, but bow the other had seemed to disagree with her; 
thei'oaftcr would come scraps of nursing information — recipes aguufc 
coughing, specifics against short breath, speculatioTiS about watdxn, 
Iiow soon she would need them, and long lege&ds of other deaft- 
bods, where the fear of death had been slain by the power of an 
endless life. Yet through all the goeap, and through much that 
might have been called at other times the common-place cant of 
religion, there was spread a tender earnestness — the whole air 
seemed to be enchanted with the fragrance of that fading lose: 
each one spoke more gently, more lonngly to each, for the thoii^ 
of her. 


It was now a bright September morning, and the early froste had 
changed the maples in the pne woods to scarlet, and touched the 
white birches with gold, when one morning Miss Boxy presented 
herself at an early hour, at Captain Eittridge's. 

They were at breakfast, and Sally was dispensing the tea at 
the head of the table; Mrs. Eittridge having been prevailed upon 
to abdicate in her favour. 

^^ IVs such a fine morning," she said, looking out at the window, 
which showed a waveless expanse of ocean. ^'I do hope Mara has 
had a good night." 

^' I'm a-goin' to make her some jelly this very forenoon," said 
Mrs. Kittridge. " Aunt Roxy was a-tellin' me yesterday that she 
was goin' down to stay at the house regular, for she needed so 
much done now." 

" It's most an amazing thing we don't hear from Moees 
Pennel," said Captain Kiiitridge : " ef he don't' make haste, he 
may never see her." 

"• There's Aunt Roxy at this minute," said Sally. 

In truth the door opened at this moment, and Aunt Roxy 
entered, with a little blue bandbox, and a bundle tied up in a 
checked bandkerchiet 


" Oh 1 Aunt Roxy," said Mrs. Kittridge, '' you are on your 
way, are you? Do sit down right here, and get a cup o' strong 

"Thank you," said Aunt Roxy; "but Ruey gave me a 
hummin' cup before I came away." 

" Aunt Roxy, . have they heard anything from Moses ? " said 
the captain. 

" No, father," said Sally ; " I know they haven't. Mara has 
written to him, and so has Mr. Sewell ; but it's very uncertain 
whether he ever got the letters." 

"It's most time to be a-lookin' for him home," said the 
captain ; " I shouldn't be surprised to see him any day," 

At this moment Sally, who sat where she could see out from the 
window, gave a sudden start, and a half -scream, and rising from 
table, darted first to the window, and then to the door, whence 
she rushed out eagerly. 

" Well, what now ? " said the captain. 

" Tm sure I don't know what's come over her," said Mrs. Kitt- 
ridge, rising to look out. " Why, Aunt Roxy, do look ! I believe 
to my soul that are's Moses Pennel I " 

And so it was. He met Sally, as she ran out, with a gloomy 
brow, and scarcely a look even of recognition ; but he seized her 
hand, and wrung it, in the stress of his emotion, so that she 
almost screamed with the pain. 

*' Tell me, Sally," he said, " tell me the truth. I dared not go 
home without I knew. These gossiping, lying reports are always 
exaggerated — they are <?rearf/wZ exaggerations; they frighten a sick 
person into the grave ; but you have good sense, and a hopeful, 
cheerful temper. You must see and know how things are. Mara 

is not so very — ^very " He held Sally's hand, and looked at 

her with a burning eagerness. " Say, what do you think of 

" We all think that we cannot long keep her with us," said 
Sally ; " and oh, Moses, I am so glad you have come." 

" It's false ] it must be false I" he aaid^ x\ol«vit\^ , " "^<2ivk&w^ 

828 TnE peahl of okr's island. 

is more deceptive than these ideas that doctors and nurseB some- 
times pile on when a sensitive person is going down a lank. 
I know Mara ; everything depends on the mind with her. I gUI 
wake her up out of this dream. She is not to die ; she shall thA 
die. I come to save her 1 " 

'* Oh, if you could !" said Sally, mournfully. 

" It cannot be — it is not to be," he said again, as if to oonvim 
himgelf. " No such thmg is to be thought of. Tell me^ Sallj 
have you tried to keep up the cheerful side of things to her 
have you ? " 

^'Oh, you cannot tell, Moses, how it is, unless youaeehe 
She is cheerful, happy : the only really joyous one among us." 

" Cheerful ! happy ! joyous ! She does not believe, then, the 
frightful things. I thought she would keep up. She is a Ina^ 
little thing!" 

" No, Moses, she does believe. She has given up all hope 
life, all wish to live ; and she is so lovely, so sweet, so dear !" 

Sally covered her &ce with her hands, and sobbed. Mos 
stood still, looking at her a moment in a confused way, and then! 
answered — 

" Come, get your bonnet, Sally, and go with me. You wn 
go in and tell them — ^tell her that I am come, you know." 

" Yes, I will," said Sally, as she ran quickly back to the houi 
Moses stood listlessly looking after her. A moment after a 
tame out of the door again, and Miss Boxy behind her. Sal 
nurried up to Moses. 

" Where's that black old raven going? " said Moses, in a 1< 
voice, looking back on Miss Koxy, who stood on the steps looki 
after them. 

" What, Aunt Roxy ? " said Sally ; " why, slie's going up 
nurse Mara, and take care of her. Mrs. Pennel is so old a 
infirm, she needs somebody to depend on." 

" I can't bear her ! " said Moses. " I always think of s 
rooms and coffins, and a stifling smell of camphor, when I see h 
I never could endure her. She is a,Ti o\^\\ks^1 %'^vdl% ^ <y«t:^ 
my dove, " 


" Now, Moses, you must not talk so. She loves Mara dearly, 
bhe poor old soul, and Mara loves her, and there is no earthly 
Qiing she would not do for her ; and she knows what to do for 
dckness better than you or I. I've found out one thing — that it 
isn^t mere love and goodwill that is needed in a sick room; it 
needs knowledge and experience.*' 

Moses assented in gloomy silence, and they walked on together 
the way that they had so often taken, laughing and chatting. 
When they came within sight of the house, Moses said — 

** Here she came running to meet us. Do you remember? " 


**I was never half worthy of her,*' said Moses. "I never 
said half what I ought to," he added. '* She must live. I mttst 
have one more chance." 

When they came up to the house, Zephaniah Fennel was sitting 
in the door with his grey head bent over the leaves of the great 
feily Bible. 

He rose up at their coming, and, with that suppression of all 
external signs of feeling for which the New Englander is remark- 
able, simply shook the hand of Moses, saying — '* Well, my boy, 
^e are glad you have come." Mrs. Fennel, who was busied in 
K)me domestic work in the back part of the kitchen, turned away 
^d hid her face in her apron when she saw him. There fell a 
^eat silence among them, in the midst of which the old clock 
dcked loudly and importunately, like the inevitable approach of 

" I will go up and see her, and get her ready," said Sally, in a 
^rhisper to Moses. " I'll come and call you." 

Moses sat down, and looked around on the old familiar scene, 
rhere was the great fire-place, where, in their childish days, they 
lad sat together on winter nights, her fair spiritual face enliveued 
)y the blaze, while she knitted, and looked thoughtfully into the 
loals. There she had played chequers, or fox and goose, with him, 
»r studied with him the Latin lesson, or sat by, grave and th.Q\i!^]:!dt£\sL, 
lemming bis tiny ship sails, while T:ie c\i\. ^V^ moxJ^\^<5>\\^WNJ^^^«^'( 


or tried experiments on pulleys ; and in all theee years 
not remember one selfish action, one unloving word. ' 
he thought to himself, " I hoped to poflseas this angel a 
wife ! God forgive my presumption I " 


Sallt found Maia sitting in an easy chair, that had b 
her by the provident love of Miss Emily. It was wheel 
of her room window, from whence she could look oui 
wide expanse of the ocean. It was a gloriously bi 
. morning, and the water lay clear and still, with scan 
to the far distant pearly horizon. She seemed to be 1( 
in a kind of calm ecstacy, and murmuring the words of 

** Nor wreck, nor ruin there is seen ; 
There not a wave of trouble rolls ; 
But the bright rainbow round the throne 
Seals endless peace to sJl their souls." 

Sally came softly behind her on tiptoe, and kissed h 

" Grood morning, dear I How do you find yourself 

" At peace I " was the answer. 

" Mara, isn't there anything you want ? " 

" There might be many things ; but His will is min 

** You want to see Moses ? " 

" Very much ; but I shall see him as soon as it is 

" Mara ! He is come ! " 

The quick blood flushed over the pale, transparen 
virgin glacier flushes at sunrise, and she looked up eage 


" Yes, he is below stairs, wanting to see you." 

She seemed about to speak eagerly, and then chec 
and mused a moment. "Poor, poor boy!" she sai 
^a^, let him come at once.'' 

' ^tose heart to ^ fluttering tird. » ^^ t^n 

>ked into ter «l«^; * ^,^5^ stole ov^ ^ ^n-drawn 

him by tt"'* ^f'fZ ^^^ ^.e^ of bis strength 
au Bteengt*^ even m t ^^^ ^^ "^^^^^^^ery emergency, 

UdWe force, by ^ d ^^^** 

, l>loodto eave-m ^^^_^ ^ ^ axeadf«l-too 

^UMara,^*-^"^*^^ , W' she B«d to 

"'.^"^ ,X cannot beUeveU^tHnd^jCfj^ 

*^^ever,Mara,n^-\^^ -, -^^^.H'^'be there-, 
««Bolo.e,no me^^ ija^ereiBab^f^^ you happy 

tl2^-^''tf3^^^" ^ very much. It -««^^ 

WsXdO'f j::Sffered.->b,^fy'I^nst ^,e <^^'^ 
«MoBeB,Ibave * i^^ht t1«^t 1 m ^^^ oie- 

^thBago^'benIft»t* ^. but ^« ^ ^ ajl 

^ our ve^ , ^^eve i*-^ 

832 TnE PEARL OP ork's island. 

" Oh, I cannot, I cannot ! " said Moses. But, as be bAed il 
the bright, pale face, and felt how the tempest of his feelinjpAM* 
the frail form, he checked himself. " I do wrong to agitate yw* 
^lara ; I will try to be calm.** 

" And to pray ? " she said, beseechingly. 

lie shut his lips in gloomy silence. 

" Promise me,** she said. 

" I have prayed, ever since I got your first letter, and 1 88 
does no good," he answered. " Our prayers cannot alter Fate.' 

" Fate ! there is no Fate," she answered. " There is a str 
and loving Father who guides our way, though we know it 
We cannot resist his will ; but it is all love — ^pure, pure loYC* 

She lay back and sighed in exhaustion. 

At this moment Sally came softly into the room. A ge 
womanly air of authority seemed to express itself in that cm 
and giddy face, at which Moses, in the midst of his misery, sil 
marvelled. " You must not stay any longer now," she said 
would be too much for her strength; this is enough foi 

Moses turned away, and silently left the room ; and SaB; 
to Mara, " You must lie down now and rest." 

" SaUy," said Mara, *' promise me one thing.** 

'* Well, Mara, of course I will." 

" Promise to love him and care for him when I am gou 
will be so lonely." 

" I will do all I can, Mara," said Sally, soothingly ; " s 
you must take a little wine and lie down. You know wh£ 
have so often said, that all will yet be well with him." 

** Oh, I know it — I am sure of it," said Mara ; " but, ( 
Borrow shook my very heart ! " 

**You must not talk another word about it," said 
peremptorily. " Do you know Aunt Roxy is coming to aei 
^ see her out of the window this very moment." 

. ;^nd Sally assisted to \a^ \iet itvsiiid q\v the bed, and th 
'^'flzsterinc' a stimulant, aVie dierw ^o^Ti.>i>Kv^ ^^i2K\isjsvciS!,^<asv^ 


beside her, began repeating, in a soft, monotonous tone, the 
of a favourite hymn : — 

" The Lord my Shepherd is, 
I shall be well supplied ; 
Since he is mine^ and I am his^ 
What can I want beside ? " 

! she had finished, Mara was asleep. 


i came down from the chamber of Mara in a tempest of con- 

g emotions. He had all that constitutional horror of death 

e spiritual world which is an attribute of some persons with 

urly strong and fully endowed animal natures ; and he had 

.t instinctive resistance of the will which such natures offer 

thing which strikes athwart their cherished hopes and plans. 

wrenched suddenly from the sphere of an earthly life, and 

to confront the unclosed doors of a spiritual world on the 

of the one dearest to him, was to him a dreary horror, 

jred by one filial belief lA God ; he felt, furtbermore, that 

animal irritation which assails us under a sudden blow, 

3r of the body or the soul — ^an anguish of resistance — a vague, 

singer, as if he could have willingly struck and contended 

n invisible something that had pained him. 

'. Sewell was sitting in the kitchen ; he had called to see 

and waited for the close of the interview above. 

I rose and offered his hand to Moses, who took it in gloomy 

tter silence, without a smile or a word. 

My son, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord,^ " said 


; cannot bear that sort of thing,'' said Moses, almost fiercely. 

I your pardon, sir, but it irritates mc." 

)o you not believe that afflictions were sent for our improve- 

" said Mr. SewelJ. 


*' No ; how can I. What improyement will there 1% 
taking from me the angel who guided me to all good, and 
from all evil — the one pure motiye and holy influence of 
If you call this the chastening of a loving Father, I n 
looks more to me like the caprice of an evil demon.*^ 

Have you ever thanked the Grod of your life for tl 
felt your dependence on him to keep it ? Have you i 
idolised the creature, and forgotten him who gave it? 

Moses was silent a moment. 

«*I cannot believe there is a Grod,^' he said. " Sii 
came on me, I have prayed — ^yes, humbled myself— fc 
have not always been what I ought. I promised, if he ' 
me this one thing, that I would seek him in future ; b 
good ; it's of no use to pray. I would have been good 
influence, if she might be spared, and I cannot through 

" My son, our Master will have no such conditions fr 
Mr. Sewell. " We must submit imconditionally. She 
and her peace is firm as the everlasting hills. Go 
mighty current that flows in spite of us; if we go 
carries us to endless rest ; if we resist, we only wear o 
in useless struggle." 

Moses stood a moment in silence, and then, tu 
without a word, hurried from the house. He strode al( 
rocky bluff, through tangled junipers and pine thic! 
came above the rocky cove which had been his favoi 
on so many occasions. He swung himself down over t. 
the grotto, where, shut in by the high tide, he felt hi 
There he had read Mr. Sewell's letter, and dreamed 
of wealth and worldly success, now all to him so wort! 
void. He felt to-day, as he sat there and watched t 
by, how utterly nothing all the wealth in the world 
loss of that one heart. Unconsciously, even to himself 
doing her ennobling nnn\alTy mV^miYmxi^ T£\&\!isv^ off : 
£rGs irivial ambitions andlo^^€a\i^«EA^cM2BMi^\c53 



ctnd valae of lore. That which in other days had seemed 
^ (me good thing among many, now seemed the only thing in 
^|^> and he who has learned the paramount value of love, has 
* '^^ti Que gtep from an earthly to a spiritual existence. 

'^Ut as he lay there on the pebbly shore, hour after houl: 

; his whole past life lived itself over to his eye. He saw a 

actions, he heard a thousand words, whose beauty and 

^^-^cance never came to him till now ; and, alas ! he saw so 

^?^y where, on his part, the word that should have been spoken, 

^^ deed that should have been done, was for ever wanting. He 

'!^^ all his life carried within him a vague consciousness that he 

^^ not been to Mara what he should have been; but he had 

"^^bped to make amends for all in that future which lay before them 

.*^»*^4hat future, alas I now dissolving and fieding away like the white 

^^Itynd-ifllands which the wind was drifting from the sky. A voice 

Imniinil saying in his ears, *' When he would have inherited a bless- 

t|^, he was rejected : for he found no place of repentance, though 

^ flouglit it carefully with tears." Something that he had never 

talt before struck him as appalling in the awful fixedness of aU 

past deeds and words — ^the unkind words once said, which no tears 

Qoold unsay — the kind ones suppressed, to which no agony of wish- 

fiilness could give a past reality. There were particular times in 

their past history that he remembered so vindly, when he saw her 

BO clearly, doing some little thing for him, and shily watching for 

the word of acknowledgment which he did not give. Some wilful, 

wayward demon withheld him at the moment, and the light on the 

Httile wishful face slowly faded. True, all had been a thousand 

times forgiven and forgotten between them ; but it is the ministry 

of these great vital hours of sorrow to teach us that nothing in the 

gonVs history ever dies or is forgotten ; and when the beloved one 

lies stricken and ready to pass away, comes the judgment day of 

love, and all the dead moments of the past arise from their graves. 

He lay there, musing and dreaming, till the sun grew low in the 

afternoon sky, and the tide that isolated the little cove had gone 

&r out into the ocean, leaving long^ low lo^ o'l ^^a^<SQk'^^^^^&.*<S^ 


luattod and tougled with the yellow hair of the seaweed, aadvit 
little crystal pools of salt water between. He heard a aoBid ( 
approaching footsteps, and Captain Eittridge came slowly pdai 
his way round among the shingle and pebbles. 

" Wal, now, I thought I'd find you here," he said. « I kini 
thought I wanted to see ye, ye see." 

Moses looked up, half moodily, half astonished, and the Capb 
seated himself on a fragment of rock, and began brushing 
knees of his pantaloons industriously ; and soon the tears nil 
down from his eyes upon his dry, withered hands. 

" Wal, now, ye see, I can't help it, darned if I can. Kno 
her ever since she's that high. She's done me good, she 1 
l^lis' Kittridge she's been pretty faithful. I've had folks h^ 
them talk to me consid'able ; but. Lord bless you, I neyer 
nothing go to my heart like this 'ere. Why, to look on her, tl 
couldn't nobody doubt but what there was suthin' in rdig 
You never knew half what she did for you, Moses Pennel. 
didn't know that the night you was off down to the long cove ^ 
Skipper Atkinson that 'are blesse^ child was a follerin' of 3 
but she was, and she come to me next day to get me to 
suthin' for you. That 'are was how your gran'ther and I go 
off to sea BO quick — and she such a httle thing then ! That 
child was the savin' on ye, Moses Pennel." 

Moses hid his head in his hands, with a sort of groan. 

" Wal, wal," said the Captain, " I don't wonder now ye fa 
I don't see how ye can stan' it, no ways, only by thinkin' 0' v 
she's goin' to. Tell ye, them bells in the celestial city must a 
a-ringin' for her. There'll be joy tJiat side o' the river, I re* 
when she gets acrost. If she'd just leave me a hem of her gar 
to go in by, I'd be glad ; but she was one of the sort that wi 
made to go to heaven. She only stopped a few days in our y 
like the robins when they's goin' south in the spring ; but tl 
^ a good many, fust and last, that'll get into the kingdom fo 
of her. She never said much to me, but she kind o' drew n 
^yerlahould get in there, it'U b<b fe\i^ \\^\. \i^ tsx^^. ^xi1< 


w, Moses, ye oughtn't fur to be a-settin* here catchin* cold. 
Bt come round to our house, and let Sally give you a warm cup 
tea. . Do come, now." 

" Thank you, Captain," said Moses ; ^^ but I will go home. I 
1st see her again to-night." 

" Wal, don't let her see you grieve too much, you know. We 
ist be a little sort o' manly, ye know, !cau8e her body's weak, if 
r heart is strong." 

Now, Moses was in a mood of dry, proud, fierce, self -consuming 
rrow, least likely to open his heart or seek sympathy ft&m any 
e, and no friend or acquaintance would probably have dared to 
brude on his grief. But there are moods of the mind, which 
nnot be touched or handled by one on an equal level with us, 
at yield at once to the sympathy of something below. A dog, 
30 comes with his great, honest, sorrowful face, and lays his 
nte "p&vr of inquiry on our knee, will sometimes open floodgates 

softer feeling that have remained closed to every human touch ; 
e dumb simplicity and ignorance of his sympathy makes it irre« 
[tible. In like manner, the downright grief of the good-natured 
1 Captain, and the childlike ignorance with which he ventured 
)on a ministry of consolation, from which a more cultivated person 
>uld have shrunk away, were irresistibly touching. 

Moses grasped the dry, withered hand, and said, " Thank you, 
ank you. Captain Kittridge, you're a true friend." 
** Wal, I be — ^that's a fact, Moses. Lord bless me, I an't no 
at — ^I an't nobody. I'm jest an old, dry, last year's muUen 
)Ik in the Lord's vineyard; but that are blessed little thing 
iers has a good word for me. She gin me a hymn-book, and 
strked some hymns in it, and read 'em to me herself ; and her 
•ice was jest as sweet as the sea of a warm evening. Them 
rmns come to me kind o' powerful when I'm at my work planin' 
id sawin'. Mis' Kittridge, she allers talks to me as ef I was a 
rrible sinner, and I s'pose I be ; but this 'ere blessed child, she's 
kind, good, and innocent, she thinks I'm good — kind o' takes it 
T grunted Tm one of the Lord's peopVft^ ^^^ Vavcs^. "V^^^ixA^ 
kes m& want to be, ye know." x 


The Captain here prodaced fix>m his coat pocket a much-w 
hymn-book, and showed Moses where leaves were folded down. 

" Now here's this 'ere," he said. '* You get her to say it 
you," he added, pointing to the well-known sacred idyl, which 
refreshed so many hearts : — 

** Thero is a land of pure delight. 
Where saints immortal reign ; 
Eternal day exoludes the night. 
And pleasures banish pain. 

** There everlasting spring abides. 
And never-withering flowers ; 
Deaib, like a narrow sea, divides 
This happy land from ours.*' 

'' Now that 'are beats everything," said the Captain, "and 
must kind o' think of it for her, 'cause she's going to see all th 
and ef it's our loss it's her gain, ye know." 

** I know," said Moses, *' our grief is selfish." 

" Jes' so. Wal — ^we're selfish critturs," said the Captain ; " 
arter all 'taint as ef we was heathens, and did'nt know where t 
was a-going to. We jest ought to be a-lookin' about and tryin 
follow 'em, ye know." 

** Yes, yes ; I do know," said Moses. *' It's easy to say, 
hard to do." 

^^ But, law, man, she prays for you. She did years and y( 
ago, when you was a boy and she a girl. You know it tells in 
Revelations how the angels has golden vials, full of odours, wb 
are the prayers of saints. I tell ye, Moses, you ought to get i 
heaven, if no one else does. I expect you are pretty well kno 
among the angels by this time. I tell ye what, Moses, fellc 
think it a mighty pretty thing to be a-steppin' high, and saj 
they don't believe the Bible, an' all that, an' so long as the wo 
goes well. This ere old Bible — ^why, its jest like yer mother ; 
rove, an' ramble, an' cut up xouiid tVi^ -vorld mthout her a sp 
snd mebbe think the old woman. «i?ii'^«oivi.^^wi^2^^^'a»V 


f.'lien sickness and sorrow comes, why, there a'n't nothing else to 
JO back to. 7* there now ? " 

Moses did not answer; but he shook the hand of the old 
Uaptain, and turned away. 


riiE setting sun gleamed in at the window of Mara's chamber, 
luted with rose and violet hues from a great cloud castle that lay 
ij)on the smooth ocean over against the window. 

IMara was lying upon the bed, but she raised herself upon her 
ilbow to look at it. 

" Dear Aunt Roxy," she said, "raise me up, and put pillows 
)chind me, so that I can see out. It is splendid ! " 

Aunt Roxy came and arranged the pillows, and lifted the girl 
kvith her long, strong arms ; then stooping over her a moment, she 
anished her arrangements by softly smoothing the hairs away over 
ler forehead, with a caressing movement most unlike her usual 
precise, bminess-like proceedings. 

"I love you. Aunt Roxy," said Mara, looking up with a smile. 

Aunt Roxy made a strange, wry face, which caused her to look 
larder than usual. She was choked with tenderness, and had only 
ihis unpleasant way of showing it. 

" Law, now, Mara, I don't see how ye can. I a'n't nothin' 
)ut an old burdock bush. Love a'n't for me." 

''Yes, it is, too," said Mara, drawing her down and kissing her 
withered cheek; "and you sha'n't call yourself an old burdock, 
jod sees that you are beautiful, and in the resurrection everybody 
vill see it." 

" I was always homely as an owl," said Miss Roxy, uncon- 
sciously speaking out what had lain like a stone at the bottom of 
jven her sensible heart ; " I always had sense to kiio^ \\.^ ^ncA-Vc^ss^ 
ny sphere. 'Homely folks would like to sa.^ ^xeXX^ ^Jsasi^^ "ws^^ ^R> 
ave pretty tbinga said to 'em, but they never ^o. ^ xjaa^^ ^Q^ ''^ 


mind pretty early that my part in the vineyard was to have hard 
work, and no posies." 

" Well, you will have all the more in heaven. I love you 
dearly, and I like your looks, too ; you look kind, and true, and 
good, and that's beauty in the country where we are going.'* 

Miss Koxy sprang up quickly from the bed, and turning her 
back, began to arrange the bottles on the tables with great zeal. 

*^ Has Moses come in yet ? " said Mara. 

" No,! there a'n't nobody seen a'thing of him since he went 
out this morning." 

"Poor boy!" said Mara, "it is too hard upon him. Aunt 
Roxy, please pick some roses off the bush from under the window, 
and put in the vases ; let's have the room as sweet and cheerful as 
we can. I hope God will let me live long enough to comfort him. 
It is not so very terrible, if one would only think so, to croes that 
river. All looks so bright to me now that I have forgotten how 
sorrow seemed. Poor Moses ! he will have a hard struggle, hut 
he will get the victory, too. I am very weak to-night, but to- 
morrow I shall feel better, and I shall sit up, and perhaps I can 
paint a little on that flower I was doing for him ; we will not 
have things look sickly or deatlily. There, Aunt Roxy, he has 
come in — I hear his step." 

*' I didn't hear it," said Miss Roxy, surprised at the acute 
senses which sickness had etherealised to an almost spirit-like 

"■ Shall I call him? " said Miss Roxy. 

"Yes, do," said Mara; "he can sit with me a little while 

The light in the room was a strange dusky mingling of gold and 
gloom when Moses stole softly in. The great cloud castle that a 
little while since had glowed like living gold from turret and 
battlement, now was changed for the most part to a sombre grey, 
enlivened mth a dull glow of crimson, but there was still a golden 
light when the sun had sunk into the sea. 

Moses saw the little tViin "hand EtTe\/i\L^ wsJt \»\sasi. 

TH£ CONCESSION 0£* M0S£8« 841 

^^Sit down,'' she said; " it has been such a beautiful sunset; did 
you notice it ?" 

He sat down by the bed, leaning his forehead on his hand, 
but saying nothing. 

She drew her fbigers through his dark hair. '^I am so glad 
to see you," she said ; ^^ it is such a comfort to me that you are 
come, and I hope it will be to you." 

He made no answer. 

'* You know, I shall be better to-morrow than I am to-night, 
and I hope we shall have some pleasant days together yet ; we 
mustn^t reject what little we may hare, because it cannot be 

''Oh, Maral" said Moses, "I would give my life if I could 
take back the past. I have never been worthy of you, never 
knew your worth, never made you happy ; you always lived for 
me, and I lived for myself. I deserve to lose you, but it is none 
the less bitter." 

''Don't say lose; why must you? I cannot think of losing you, 
I know I shall not ; God has given you to me, and you will come 
to me and be mine at last. I feel sure of it." 

" You don't know me," said Moses. 

" Christ does, though," she said, " and he has promised to care 
for you. Yes, you will live to see many flowers grow out of my 
grave. You cannot think so now ; but it will be so, believe me." 

" Mara," said Moses, " I never lived through such a day as 
this. It seems as if every moment of my life had been passing 
before me, and every moment of yours. I have seen how true and 
loving, in thought, and word, and deed, you have been ; and I have 
been doing nothing but take, take. You have given love as the 
skies give rain, and I have drank it up, like the hot, dusty earth." 

Mara knew in her own heart that this was all true, and she 
-was too real to use any of the terms of aftected humiliation which 
many think a kind of spiritual court language. She looked at him, 
and answered — 

"Mosesj I always kne^Y I loved vaoal \ \X. ^^m^ \iaX\is.^— ^^^ 


gave it to me, and it was a gift for which I give him tl 
a merit. I knew you had a larger, wider natnre tha 
wider sphere to live in — and that you could not live in 
as I did. Mine was all thought and feeling, and the ni 
duties of this little home ; yours went all around the w( 

" But oh, Mara ! oh, my angel ! to think I should los( 
I am just beginning to know your worth ! I always hi 
superstitious feeling — a sacred presentiment about yon 
spiritual life, if ever I had any, would come throug 
seemed, if there ever was such a thing as Grod's provide] 
some folks believe in — it was in leading me to you, and 
to me ; and now to have all dashed — all destroyed ! Ii 
feel as if all was blind chance — ^no guiding God ; for if 
me to be good, he would spare you ! " 

Mara lay with her large eyes fixed on the now fade 
dusky shadows had dropped like a black crape veil arou 
face. In a few moments she repeated to herself, as i 
musing upon them, those mysterious words of Him whc 
was dead — 

"Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground 
abideth alone : but if it die, it bringeth forth much fnii 

" Moses," she said, " for all I know you have loved 
yet I have felt that, in all that was deepest and dearej 
was alone; you did not come near to me, nor toucl 
where I felt most deeply. If I had lived to be your wii 
say but this distance in our spiritual nature might hai 
You know what we live with we get used to — it gr< 
story. Your love to me might have grown old and wo 
we lived together in the common-place toils of life, yoi 
only a poor threadbare wife. I might have lost what 1 
I ever had for you ; but I feel that if I die this will not 
is something sacred and beautiful in death ; and I may 
power over you when I seem to be gone than I shoul 

'*0b, MarSL, Mara, don:t aay 1W\.\^^ 


" Dear Moses, it is so. Think how many lovers marry, and 
how few lovers are left in middle life ; and how few reverence and 
love living friends as they do the dead. There are only a very 
few to whom it is given to do that." 

Something in the heart of Moses told him that this was true. 
In this one day, in the sacred revealing light of approaching death, 
he had seen more of the real spiritual beauty and significance of 
Mara's life than in years before, and felt upspringing in his heart, 
from the deep pathetic influence of the approaching spiritual 
world, a new and stronger power of loving. It may be that it is 
not merely a perception of love, that we were not aware of before, 
that wakes up when we approach those solemn shadows with a 
friend. It may be that the soul has compressed and unconscious 
powers, which are stirred and wrought upon as it looks over the 
borders into its future home — ^its loves and its longings so swell and 
beat, that they astonish itself. We are greater than we know, and 
dimly feel it with every approach to the great hereafter — " It doth 
not yet appear what we shall be." 

" Now, I'll tell you what 'tis," said Aunt Roxy, opening the 
door ; "all the strength this 'ere girl spends a-talkin' to-night, is so 
much out 0* the whole cloth of to-morrow." 

Moses started up. 

" I ought to have thought of that, Mara." 

'*ye see," said Miss Roxy, "she's been through a good deal 
to-day, and she must be got to sleep, at some rate or other, 
to-night. ' Lord, if he sleep, he shall do well,* the Bible says, and 
it's one of my nussin' maxims." 

"And a good one, too. Aunt Roxy," said Mara. "Good 
night, dear boy. You see we must all mind Aunt Roxy." 

Moses bent down and kissed her, and felt her arms around his 

" ' Let not your heart be troubled,' " she whispered. 

In spite of himself, Moses felt the storm that had arisen in his 
bosom that morning soothed by the gentle itA\x&\i'c,^&"^^^^ 
hroatbed upon it. There is a BympaitVift^\a "^"^et \». ^ ^^^^ja '^ 


mind, and they who have reached the deep secret of eternal 
have a strange power of imparting cahn. 

It was in the very crisis of the external battle that Christ & 
to his disciples, ^^ My peace I give unto you;^^ and they that a 
made one ^(rith him, acquire like precious power of shedding arouL 
them repose, as evening flowers shed odour. 

!Moee8 went to his pillow sorrowful and heart-stricken ; but 
bitter or dispairing he could not be with the consciousness of that 
angel in the house. 


TuR next morning rose calm and bright, with that wonderful and 
mystical stillness and serenity which glorifies autumn days in that 
mirror-land of mingled forest and sea that belts the coast of 
Maine. The taU spruces and hemlocks, and the tremulous yellow 
birches, were wet and glittering with the dissolving mist of an 
early autumn frost, which was melting before the morning sun, as 
distrust and despair melt before love. The sea lay so still, that 
every ship and schooner, every little boat, was as perfect in each 
line and motion in the water below as in the air above ; only now 
and then slight breathiogs would pass here and there across the 
bright expanse, and shiver it into wide bands of sparkling sapphires. 
It was impossible that such skies could smile, and such gentle airs 
blow, without bringing cheerfulness to human hearts. 

You must be very despairing indeed, when Nature is doing her 
best, to look her in the face sullen and defiant. So long as there is 
a drop of good in your cup, a penny in your exchequer of happi- 
ness, a bright day reminds you to look at it, and feel that all is not 
gone yet. 

So felt Moses, when he stood in the door of the brown house 

while Mrs. Fennel was clinking plates and spoons, setting the 

breakfast-table, and Zephauiah Fennel, in his shirt-sleeYes, was 

washing in the back room ; wliilo Miss Roxy came down-stairs, in 

^jslncsa-like fashion, briny^ing suxiOLt'j \io\<\&^ -^X."®*., ^a^bkea^ and 

sterious piichem from the sick-xoooi. 


"Well, Aunt Roxy, you a'n't one that lets the grass grow 
under your feet," said Mrs. Pennel. '* How is the dear child this 

*' Well, she had a better night than one could have expected," 
said Miss Roxy ; " and by time she^s had her breakfast, she expects 
to sit up a little, and see her friends." Miss Boxy said this with a 
cheerful tone, looking encouragingly at Moses, whom she began to 
pity and patronise, now she saw how real was his affliction. 

After breakfast Moses went in to see her. She was sitting up 
in her white dressing-grown, looking so thin and pearly, and 
everything in the room was fragrant with the spicy smell of the 
monthly roses, whose late buds and blossoms Miss Roxy had 
gathered for the vases. 

She seemed so natural, so cahn and cheerful, so interested in all 
that went on around her, that one almost forgot that the time of 
her stay must be so short. She called Moses to come and look at 
her drawings and paintings of flowers and birds — full of reminders 
they all were of old times — and then she would have her pencils 
and colours, and work a little on a bunch of red rock columbine 
that she had begun to do for him ; and she chatted of all the old 
familiar places where flowers grew, and of the old talks they had 
had there, till Moses quite forgot himself — ^forgot that he was in a 
sick room till A.unt Roxy, warned by the deepening colour on 
Mara^s cheek, interposed her nursing authority — she must do no 
more that day. Then Moses laid her down, and arranged her 
pillows, so that she could look out on the sea, and sat and read to 
her till it was time for her afternoon nap ; and when the evening 
shadows drew on, he marvelled with himself how quickly the day 
had gone. 

Many such there were, all that pleasant month of September ; 
and he was with her all the time, watching her wants, and doing 
her bidding — reading over and over with a softened modulation 
her favourite hymns and chapters — arranging her flowers, and 
briuging her home wild bouquets from all hex ^.^ojoxV^fc ^'5r^ 
haunts — which made her sick room fteesa '^'^ ^\xva«f«%sOQ«^^st' 


Sally Kittridge was there, too, almoBt every day^ vrith. always some 
friendly offenDg or some helpful deed of kindness, and sometimes 
they two together would keep guard over the invalid while Miss 
Roxy went home to attend to some of her own more peculiar 
concerns. Mara seemed to sway all around her with a calm 
sweetness and wisdom, speaking unconsciously only the speech of 
heaven — ^talking of spiritual things, not in excited rapture or wild 
ecstacy, but with the sober certainty of waking bliss. She seemed 
like one of the sweet friendly angels one reads of in the Old 
Testament — so lovingly companionable— walking and talking, 
eating and drinking with mortals — ^yet ready at any unknown 
moment to ascend with the flame of some sacrifice, and be gone. 
There are those — a few at least — ^whose blessing it has been to ' 
have kept for many days in bonds of earthly fellowship a perfected 
spirit, in whom the work of purifying love was wholly done — who 
lived in calm victory over sin, and sorrow, and death — ready at 
any moment to be called to the final mystery of joy. 

Yet it must come at last — ^the moment when Heaven claims ita 
own ; and it came at last in the cottage on Orr*s Island. 

There came a day when the room, so sacredly cheerful, was 
hushed to a breathless stiUness. The bed was there all snowy 
white, and that soft, still sealed face — ^the parted waves of golden 
hair — the little hands folded over the white robe — ^all had a sacred 
and wonderful calm — a rapture of repose that seemed to say, ** It 
is done." They who looked on her wondered — ^it was a look that 
sunk deep into every heart — ^it hushed down the common cant of 
those who, according to country custom, went to stare blindly at 
the great mystery of death ; for every one that came out of that 
chamber smote upon their breast, and went away in silence, 
revolving strangely whence might come that mysterious beauty, 
that celestial joy, which could so turn the shadow of death into 

Once more, in that very room where James and Mary Lincoln 
had lain side by side in their coffins, elee\slrv^ reslfully, there was 
/aid another form, shrouded and eo^wei^,\i>3L\. V\\\v «csw<:3tt. ^ x^sAsa 


purity — such a mysterious fulness of joy in its expression — that it 
seemed more natural to speak of that rest as some higher form of 
life than of deatL 

Once more were gathered the neighbourhood. All the £Eu;es 
known in this history shone out in one solemn picture, of which 
that sweet, restful face was the centre. Zephaniah Fennel and 
Mary his wife, Moses and Sally, the dry form of Captain Kit- 
tridge, and the solemn visage of his wife ; Aunt Roxy and Aunt 
Ruey, Miss Emily and Mr. Sewell ; but their countenances all wore 
a tender brightness, such as one sees falling, like a thin celestial 
veil, over all the different faces in an old Florentine religious 
painting. The room was full of sweet memories — of words of 
cheer, words of assurance, words of triumph ; and the mysterious 
brightness of that young, still face forbade them to weep. Solemnly 
Mr. Sewell read the triumphant words of Holy Writ : — 

*' He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will 
wipe away tears from off all faces ; and the rebuke of his people 
shall he take away from off all the earth ; for the Lord hath spoken 
it. And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our Grod ; we have 
waited for him, and he will save us : this is the Lord, we have 
waited for him : we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation." 

Then the prayer trembled up to heaven with thanksgiving 
for the early entrance of "our young sister" into glory; and 
then the same old funeral hymn, with its mournful triumph, 

" Why should we mourn departing friends. 
Or shake at Death's alarms? 
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends 
To call them to his arms." 

Then, in a few words, Mr. Sewell reminded them how this hymn 
had been sung in this room so many years ago, when that frail, 
fluttering, orphan soul had been baptised into the love and family 
of Jesus ; and how her whole life, passing before them in its sim- 
plicity and purity, had come to so holy and beautiful a close; 
and when pointing to the calm, sleeping face he asked^"W<^\ii^^^ 
call her hack? there was not a heart ^\,\\\?i.\» xckj^vivss^^'Qcfii^^^^^^^ 

348 TUK PKAftL OF ORlt*S IBIAKl). 

answer, Yee. Even he that should have been her bridegroom could 
not at that moment have unsealed the holy charm. 

And so they bore her away, and laid the calm, smiling face 
beneath the soil, by the- side of poor Dolores. 

'^ I had a beautiful dream last night," said Zephaniah Fennd, 
the next morning after the funeral, as he opened his Bible to 
conduct morning worship. 

" What was it ? " said Aunt Roxy. 

^* Well, ye see, I thought I was out a-walkin* up and down, 
and lookin' and lookin* for something Vd lost. What it was I 
couldn't quite make out, but my heart felt heavy as if it would 
break ; and I was lookin' all up and down the sands by the sea- 
shore, and somebody said I was like the merchantman seeking 
goodly pearls. I said I had lost my pearl — my pearl of great 
price ; and then I looked up, and far off, on the wet sands, 
shining softly like the moon, lay my pearl. I thought it was 
Mara, but it seemed a great pearl, with a soft moonlight in it; 
and I was runnin' for it, when some one said, *• Hush 1 ' and I looked 
and saw Him a-comin' — Jesus of Nazareth— jest as he walked by 
the sea. It was all dark night round him, but I could see him by 
the light that came from his face, and the long hair was hanging 
down on his shoulders. He came and took up my pearl, and put 
it on his forehead, and it shone out like a star, and shone into my 
heart, and I felt happy ; and he looked at me steadily and lovingly, 
and rose and rose in the air, and melted into the clouds, and I 
awoke so happy and so calm. Our pearl is safe.*' 


It was a splendid evening in July, and the sky was piled high 
with gorgeous tabernacles of purple and gold — ^the remains of a 
grand thunder-shower, which had freshened the air, and set a 
separate Jewel on every needle-leai oi \Xift ci^^^^xi'es*, 
Four years had passed auice tloie iwi ^^^\ ^i ^Te-i* ^^«s^ 

> SALLY AT tiara's GRAVE. 319 

had been laid beneath the gentle soil, which every year sent 
monthly tributes of flowers to adorn her rest — great blue violets, 
starry flocks, and ethereal eyebrights in spring, and fringy asters 
and golden rod in autumn. In those days the tender sentiment 
which now makes the burial-place a cultivated garden was yet 
unknown in New England. The rigid spiritualism of Puritanism 
— ever jealous of that which concerned the body, lest it should 
claim what belonged to the immortal alone — had frowned on all 
watching of graves as an earthward tendency, and enjoined the 
flight of faith with the spirit rather than the yearning for its cast- 
off garments. But Sally Eittridge, being lonely, found something 
m her heart which could only be comforted by visits to that grave ; 
so she had planted these roses and trailing myrtle, and tended and 
watered them — a proceeding which was much commented on 
Sunday noons, when people were eating their dinners and discussing 
their neighbours. 

It is possible good Mrs. Eittridge might have been much scan- 
dalised by it had she been in a condition to think on the matter at 
all ; but a very short time after the funeral she was seized with a 
paralytic shock, which left her for a while helpless as an infant, 
and then she sank away into the grave, leaving Sally the sole care 
of the old Captain. A cheerful home she made, too, for his old age, 
adorning his house with many little tasteful fancies unknown in 
her mother^s days ; reading the Bible to him, and singing Mara*s 
favourite hymns, with a voice as sweet as the spring blue- 

The spirit of the departed friend seemed to hallow the dwelling 
where these two worshipped her memory in simple-hearted love. 
Her paintings, framed in quaint woodland frames of moss and 
pine cones by Sally^ own ingenuity, adorned the walls. Her 
books were on the table, and among them many that she had given 
to Moses. 

" I am going to be a wanderer for many years," he said, in 
parting ; " keep these for me till I come back," 

And BO, from time to time, paaaed Vm^\e)0^^T3^ \5Ri\7R^Mss^ *^'^ 


two friends, each telling to the other the same story — tha 
were lonely, and that their hearts yearned for the commnn 
one who no longer could be manifest to their senses : and 
spoke to the other of a world of hopes and memories buried 
her, which each so constantly said, ^ no one oouM understand 
you.'^ Each, too, were firm in the faith that buried love must \ 
no earthly resurrection ; every letter always strenuously insL 
upon that. They called each other brother and sister, and, un 
cover of that name, the letters grew longer and more frequei 
and with every chance opportunity came presents from the abse 
brother, which made the little old cottage quaintly suggesti^ 
with smell of spice and sandal-wood. 

But, as we said, this is a glorious July evening, and you ma^ 
discern two figures picking their way over those low sunken rocks, 
yellow with seaweed, of which we have often spoken. They are 
Closes and Sally, going on an eyening walk to that favoorite 
grotto retreat which has so often figured in the course of thia 
history. Moses has come home from long wanderings ; it is four 
years since they parted ; and now they meet, and have looked into 
each other's eyes, not as girl and boy, but as man and woman. 

Moses and Sally had just risen from the tea-table, over which 
she had presided with a thoughtful, housewifely gravity, just 
pleasantly dashed with quaint streaks of her old merry, wilfulness ; 
while the Captain warmed up like a rheumatic grasshopper on a 
fine autumn day, chirruped feebly, and told some of his old stories, 
which now he told every day, forgetting that they had ever been 
heard before. Somehow, all these had been very happy — ^the more 
so for a shadowy sense of some sympathising presence which was 
rejoicing to see them together again, and yrhich, stealing softly 
forth aud noiseless, everywhere touched and lighted up every 
old familiar object with sweet memories. 

And so they had gone out together to walk — ^to walk towards 
be cove, where Sally had caused to be made a seat, and where 
declared she had passed laovxi^ «isA Vo\a:^>E3AS(^^<^^ «Awing, 


" Sally," said Moses, " do you know I am tired of wandering? 
I am coming home now. I begin to want a home of my own." 

This he said as they sat together on the rustic seat, and looked 
oft* on the blue sea. 

" Yes, you must," said Sally. ** How lovely that ship looks 
just there on the horizon! See, there are one — ^two — three 
coming in." 

** Yes, they are beautiful," said Moses, abstractedly ; and Sally 
rattled on about the difference between sloops and brigs, seeming 
determined that there should be uo silence, such as often comes in 
ominous gaps between two friends who have long been separated, 
and have many things to say with which the other is not familiar. 

** Sally," said Moses, breaking in with a deep voice on one o^ 
these monologues, ^<do you remember some presumptuous things 
1 once said to you in this place ? " 

Sally stopped, and there was a dead silence, in which they 
could hear the tide gently dashing on the nudy rocks. 

" You and I are neither of us what we were then, Sally. We 
are as different as if we were each another person. We have been 
trained in another life — educated by a great sorrow. Is it 
not so ? " 

" I know it," said Sally. 

"And why should we two, who have a world of thoughts 
and memories, which no one can understand but the other — ^why 
should we each of us go on together alone ? If we must, why then, 
SaUy, I must leave you, and I must write and receive no more 
letters ; for I have found that you are becoming so wholly neces- 
sary to me that, if any other should claim you, I could not feel 
as I ought. Must I go ?" 

Sally's answer is not on record, but one infers what it is from 
the fact that they sat there very late ; and before they knew it 
the tide rose up and shut them in, and the moon rose up in full 
glory out of the water, and still they sat and talked, leaning on 
each other, till. a cracked, feeble voice called down. thici\\i^ -<kiS5k 
trtfes Ahove like a hoarse, old cmkiit — 

3.^2 Tni PEARL or OBB^B ISLAND. 

" Children, be you there?" 

*^ Yes, father," said Sally, bltnhiDg and conscions. 

'* Yes, all right," aaid the deep bes of Moses ; " Til bring her 
back wlien IVe done with her. Captain." 

** Wal, wal, I was gettin* concerned, but I see I don't need to 
I hope you won't get no colds nor nothin'." 

They did not, but in the course of a month there was a wedding 
at the brown house of the old Captain, whicb everybody in the 
parish was glad of, and was voted without dissent to be just the 

Mias Roxy, grimly approbative, presided over the preparations, 
and all the characters of our story appeared once more, each having 
on their marriage garment. 

Nor was the wedding less joyful that all felt the presence of A 
heavenly guest, silent and loving, seeing and blessing all, whoBe 
voice seemed to say in every heart — 

^^ He tiurneth the shadow of death into morning,** 





Other Volumes in Preparation^ particulars oj which me^ be had 

on application to the Publishers, 

** Cheap and tempting." — Academy. 

s'ovel binding, printed in colours and enamelled, quite smooth, 
and free from finger-marks and adhesiveness. 


JPxrpular fPitjerater^ jaf all (SjmxAnzsi, 



" Perhaps the most unostentatious, and at the same time the prettiest of all the 
ttle books for young readers produced at this season, is Messrs. LOW ft CO.'S 

ROSE LIBRARY.' There are few books likely to be read with more 

leasure by the yo\mg.**-'Examiner, 

., Seagull Bock. By Jules Sandkau, of the French 

Academy. Translated by Robrrt Black, M.A Illustrated, ts. 
** An excellent series of books is Uie ' Rose Library.' "^Scotsman, 

J. Little Women. By Louisa M. Alcott. ij. 

"The neatest and best printed shilling volumes we have ever seen."— /mA 

I. Little Women Wedded. (Forming a Sequel to the 

above.) i^. 

*' Singularly cheap and handsome The series can be scarcely too 

ighly praised." — Nonconformist, 

L The House on Wheels ; or, Far from Home. B^ 

Madame De Stolz. With Illustrations, xs. 
"We cannot doubt the complete success of the 'Rose Library.' " — Hereford 

I. Little Men. By Louisa M. Alcott. u. 

** We wish the * Rose Library * all the good fortune and success it deserves." 
-Glasgow Herald 

I. The Old-Fashioned Gibl. By Louisa M. Alcott. i j. 

" a series of elegant little volumes There is ample room for books 

ke these."^Z^*</f Msrcury. 

\ The Mistbess of the Manse. By J. G. Holland. \s, 

** A series of charming little works." — Gloucester Chronicle. 

\, Timothy Titcomb's Lettebs to Toung People, 
single and married. 

"Charming series of little books." — Bristol Mercury, 
" Should certainly be popular, for they are all charming little books of per- 
nanent value."— C^«r/ Circular. 

2 Nav Books published by Sampson Law 6f* Co, 

THE ROSE LlBRARY-^^*««^^. 

The New Volumes in this Series now ready, or nearly ready : — 

9. Undine and the Two Captains. By Baron De 

La MoTTB FouQUi. A new Translation by F. E. Bctnni^tt. Illus- 
trated. IS. 

10. Draxt Milleb's Dowbt and the Bldeb's Wife. 

By Saxb Holm. [Ready. 

11. The Foub Gold Pieces. By Madame Gouraud. 

Numerous Illustrations. {Reiufy. 

12. Wobk: a Story of Experience. First Portion. By 

Louisa M. Alcott. {Ready. 

13. Beoinkiho Again ; being a continuation of "Work." 

By Miss Alcott. IReady. 

14. FiGGiOLA ; or, the Prison Flower. By X. B. Saintine. 

Numerous fn^iic Illustrations. lln the Preu. 

(Others in pre^raOon.) 

NOTICE.— The Volumes in this Series will also be published 
in a more extensive fonn. The following are ready or nearly so. 
Small post 8yo., printed on toned paper, choicely bound in cloth 
extra, gilt edges, 2s. 6d, each : — 

1. Seagull Bock, By Jules Bandeau. Numerous 

Illustrations. [Ready. 

2. The House on Wheels. By Madame Stolz. 

Numerous Illustrations* [Ready. 

3. The Mistbess op the Manse. By Dr. Holland. 

No Illustrations. [Ready. 

4. Undine and the Two Captains. By FouquI 

Many Illustrations. [Ready. 

^. Dbaxt Milleb's Dowby and the Eldeb's Witk. 

By Saxr Holm. No Illustrations. [Ready. 

6. The Foub Gold Pieces. A Story of Normandy. 

By Madame Gouraud. Numerous Illustratioos. [Ready, 

7. Picciola ; or, the Prison Flower. By X B. Saintini. 

Numerous Illustrations; [/« (Jke Prtu, 

New Books published by Samfison Low &* Co, 3 

" Terribly thrilling and absolutely bannless."^7'mrx. 


" M. Verne exaggerates scientific possibilities into romance in a way so natural 
and charming, that even sober men and women are fascinated by his extrava- 
gance."— iSrr/iVA Qiittrterly Review. 

** These tales are very popular in Fi^ce» and as the love of the marvellous is 
no stronger in French than in English boys, they will, no doubt, be well appre- 
ciated by the latter, especially as they are full of pictures." — TVmmx. 

I. A Floating Citt and the Blockade Runnebs. 

By JvLBS Vbkmb. Containing Fifty very fine FuU>page Illus- 
trations. Square crown 8vo., drai, gilt edges, jt, 6d, 

II. Db. Ox's Expebiment ; Masteb Zaghabiijb ; a 

Bv Jules Vbrnb. Numerous Full-page Illustrations. Cbth, gilt 
edges, js. 6d, 

Uniform with the First Edition of "The Adventures of a Young Naturalist." 

nL Twenty Thousand Leagues undeb the Sea. By 

iULBS Veknb. Translated and Edited bv the Rev. L. P. Mbrcibr 
I. A. With 113 very graphic Woodcuts. Large post 8vo., cloth extra, 
gilt edges, lOir. 6d. 

** Boys will be delighted with diis wild story, through which scientific truth 
and most frantic fiction walk cheek bjr jowl. ... It is an excellent boy's book. 
We devoutly wish we were a boy to enjoy it." — Times. 

" Full of we most astounding submarine adventures ever printed."— JKftfrwM^ 

"If this book, which is translated from the Frendi, does not 'go^' boys are 
no longer boys. • . . Grave men will be equally borne along in die grasp of the 
accomplished author." — Standard, 

lY. Mebidiana : AdYentures of Three Englishmen and 

Three Russians in South Africa. By Julbs Vbrnb. Translated from 
the French. With numerous Illustrations. Royal z6mo., clodi extra, 
gilt edges, js. 6d, 

"This capital translation of M. Verne's last wild and amusi&g story is, like 
all those hy the same audior, delightfully extravagant, and full of entertaining 
improbabilities." — Momd\g Post. * 

" There is real merit here in both the narrative and the woodcuts.*' — North 
British Daily MaU. 

" Jules Verne, in ' Meridiana,' makes the account of the scientific proceedings 
as interesting as the hunting and exidoring adventures, which is saying a good 

y, The Fub Countby. By Jules Verne. With 

upwards of Eighty Illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth extra, los. 6d, 
**^ * The Fur Country ' will not disappoint them ; we can promise them breathless 
excitement, wonders, and dangers and escapes. It is a story of courage, endu« 
ranee, adventure, and fun : for there is mudi that is really humorous in some of 
the characters," — Aihsmntm. 

4 New Books pubtished by Sampson Low d^■ Co. 

JULES VERNE'S B O O K S-^<"»''«««i 
Yi. From the Eabth to the Moon, and a Tbip bound 

IT. Numerous Illustrations. Crown 8to.. cIoU^ gilt edges^ zor. ^. 

" As for ' From the Earth to the Moon/ it fe enoo«i to give one bram fever to 
read it. M. Verne's books are certainly extremdy clever, and deserve all 
imaginable success. Their sensation is at (mce terribly thrilling and absolutely 
harmless."— TtMWiT. 

" This marvellous and most entertaixung book is one which ought to meet with 
a great many readers. The grave manner in which the adventures are narrated, 
the wondrous mathematical calculationSp the soHd air of truth mixed up with 
quiet humour and racy fun, are inimitaHe.*'^ Vaniiy Fair, 

In reviewing the two preceding books the Britiik Qnartttiy Rtview said :— 
" The bodu are bod& of them superb in dieir exciting devemess and charm. 
Among the boyif books of the year they are so &r first that die rest are nowhere.'* 

vn. Abound the Wobld in Eiohtt Days. By Jules 

Vbrmb. Numerous Illustrations. Square crown 8vo., yx. 6d. 

" We hardly know what to sa^ of this extraordinarily book. How much of 
it is truth and how much fiction it is difficult to determme. One thing we may 
assure our readers, that it is not only interesting but fiudnatins : not only that, 
it is as exdting from banning to end as the last quarter stretdi of the Derby." 

** The liveliest book of the season ; it is very laughable and readaUe, and 
nothing could be cleverer in its way. . . . We can assure the reader that he can 
hardly fail to find amusement."*— JV^rw Vcri Nation, 

vin. Five Weeks in a Balloon. By Jules Verne. 

New Edition. Numerous Illustrations, print^ on Toned Paper, and 
uniformly with " Arotmd the World," &c. Sqtiare crown 8vo., 7^. dd. 
*' This is a second edition of a very extraordinary work which we noticed on 
its first appearance in English dress, doing justice to its bold inventions and 
fantastic developments. The illustrations to thb edition are very admiraUe; 
and those who have read the former books of the same class by M. Jules Verne 
will enjoy it all the more. To boys it should be a real prize. It is most beauti- 
fully got up every way." — Nonconformist, 

Uniform with the 7b. 6d. Edition of Verne's Works. 

The Fantastic Histoby of the Gelebbated Piebbot. 

Written by the Magician ALCOPiyBAS, and Translated from the Sogdien by 
Alfred Assollant. Square crown 8vo., with upwards of zo« Humorous 
Illustrations by Van D'Argsnt, attractive cloth cover, gilt edges, ns. td. 
"Allied to the scientific extravaganzas of Jules Verne is the broad burlesque 
of ' The Fantastic History of the Celebrated Pierrot.' This book is full, from 
beginning to end, of Munchausen-like achievements among the Chinese. Hair- 
breadth escapes, romantic mysteries, wonderful batties, grotesque situations, clever 
characterisation, are to be found on everv ps^ge. It is the Arabian Nights, Mun- 
chausen, Gulliver, and Monte Christo aU rolled into one."— ^rrVtrA Quarterly 

Crown Buildings, 188 Fleet Street, E,C. 

K ^ 



"ThB CarsDu Coco« of meh choioa quftlity."— **«i. Watrr, 

and AiT. BrlUed by Dr. e.aaii.L. 
" A mo*t dsUciOD* Utd VftloklilB ts\iei»,"— Standard. 


Bavonr of Fry'i CaraOfta ChocoUta ii dna tfl V^LJ 
cnoice uaraeai and otbec ealsbrated Cocaai, eombinad with 
H little V&nilla. "Fnlflli evflnr pnsiible reqviremant Air 

flavonr and pnrily."— i^"""-' i^rrttiar. 


t^ e©eoA 

" Than which, it properly piepared, tbere i* i 

nlger or mars wholeicme preparation of Coeok."— 

anrf Air, Edited bg 1)k. U^asiix.